The Ivory Peacock
by Igi
Summary: Brandon Rose is handsome, clever, and insufferable; he is also Beatrice's arch-nemesis from the second day of school. But is he capable of murder? And what role does he play in the disappearance of the twelve dancing princesses? Please R&R!
1. Interkingdom College

**Chapter One: Interkingdom College**

_And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school._

- From Shakespeare's _As You Like It_

"Beatrice! _Beatrice!_" Her mother's voice was piercing, insistent; it found her by the palace gardens' shining lake, where she had been saying goodbye to the fish. She was going to miss them: especially Lancelot, with his mournful eyes and large, gaping mouth. With a sigh she air-kissed her watery pets a farewell that was less than dry (her eyes, alas, welled up with water) and, carefully holding up her skirts so as to not get them muddy, hurried to the front of the palace. Starcastle may not have been the largest kingdom in the world, but its palace gardens certainly ranked amongst the most intricate. Beatrice skilfully steered her way through the seemingly endless maze of flowers until her high heels clip-clopped on the cobblestones that paved the path in front of the palace.

"_Finally_," exclaimed her mother. Queen Nell stood in front of the assemblage of servants and ministers that had come to wish the royal offspring farewell before they embarked on their journey to the prerequisite royal boarding school. Though to an outsider, Nell's face looked composed, Beatrice could tell that she was on the verge of tears. If only it had not been a law of the Commons that all sons and daughters of ruling families must go to Interkingdom College when they reached the age of sixteen...Beatrice knew that Father had tried to pass an amendment in Parliament, but unfortunately it was of no use. Most families were more than happy to send their children away.

"Where's Benedick?" asked Beatrice.

"Your father's giving him some parting advice."

"'Neither a borrower nor a lender be,'" said Beatrice, grinning.

"Oh Bea," said the Queen, "please don't make jokes at a time like this."

"I'm sorry, Mother."

"I'd like to say something to you, as well." (Here she gave an almost inaudible sniff that told Beatrice that the flood would not be held back for much longer.)

"Yes, Mother...I'm listening."

"Beatrice...be obedient, even if you recognise the injustice around you. The world is full of injustice; but we must bear our grievances silently and with a smile. You must be strong: nothing should be able to break you; at the same time, you must be supple, pliant, beautiful in thought and in action. Never get caught up in vanity: though you are beautiful on the outside, that should never be the most important thing to you. Your mind: that is what you, and others, should value first and foremost. Work hard. Do not wish for what you do not have; be grateful, instead, for the things you do possess.

"Be courteous to all, even your enemies - nay, especially your enemies. Cherish your enemies at least as much as you cherish your friends, for they give you the chance to practise patience and compassion. Treat older people with respect, even if you see that they are fallible. Always put others first. And finally..." (here the Queen burst into sobs; Beatrice leant over to hug her, to comfort her) "...please _write to me._" These last words were said in a whisper. Beatrice hugged her mother tight, as though she never wanted to let go. And then she saw her father and brother descending the stairs, and she knew it was time to part. Her mother felt it too: gently, she extricated herself from Beatrice's grasp.

"Remember," she said simply, fighting back the tears.

"I will," whispered Beatrice; "I will."

As he walked past his army of staff, his red velvet cloak swirling behind him, King Redmond looked warm and distinguished. But Beatrice thought she detected a shadow on his face: she suspected Benedick had been impertinent. Oh Benedick, you and your high-flying ideas of creative genius...Beatrice smiled. Though he was her twin, Benedick could not have been more different. Beatrice fancied herself to be fairly level-headed, if at times passionate...Benedick, on the other hand, always had his head in the clouds, and sometimes it was quite difficult to pull him back down to her level of reality. Poor Father. The farewell spiel must have ended less than happily...

All the same, Benedick looked positively unruffled. In the middle of composing another epic poem, no doubt (he never finished them). Beatrice frowned: Benedick usually went crimson right to the roots of his (already red) hair after an argument...but now he was his usual pale self. Was it possible that something other than Benedick (heaven forfend!) had played on Father's nerves? Something froze within her. Last night, she had heard angry voices...was it possible...could it be that Mother and Father had had an argument? Glancing at her mother's pale, drawn face, she thought she saw something beyond the unhappiness of parting with one's children: marital discontent. Beatrice shuddered. Surely that couldn't be true? They had always been such a happy family...

"Beatrice, give this to the headmistress as soon as you see her," said her father, passing her an envelope.

Beatrice nodded, studying her father's face: the shadow had gone. Perhaps she had only imagined it; perhaps there had been no argument, no unhappiness.

"Now," said King Redmond, with a cheerful smile that belied his emotion, "off with the pair of you, or you'll be late."

"Yes, Father," murmured Benedick. With the awkwardness of a newborn calf, he leant over to hug his father; Beatrice couldn't help giggling. When it was her turn, she gave the King an affectionate squeeze - which he returned, with interest.

"Take care, both of you," said Queen Nell softly, embracing both siblings one last time. And then they stepped into the carriage; then the trumpets sounded; then, with a clatter of hooves, they left home for the first time.

* * *

They had been travelling for about two hours. The air whizzed past them; it was an empowering feeling, thought Beatrice, to have the wind blowing in your face. Her brother, however, felt otherwise.

"Bea," he moaned, "could you please close the window? All that fresh air is suffocating me..."

"You _are_ joking, aren't you?"

"No..."

"But you usually love the fresh air!"

"Bea," said Benedick, gently pulling her away from the window so that she had to look at him, "I would have thought that, having grown up with me, you _might_ know by now that an artist's temperament is _extremely_ changeable?"

"Yes, changeable like the weather," cried Beatrice, wriggling out of his grasp and clambering back to the window.

"Come - back!" exclaimed Benedick, trying to pull the window closed.

"Never!" returned Beatrice, grinning.

"You little scoundrel, Beatrice..."

"Stop that, Benedick, it tickles!" panted Beatrice, laughing uncontrollably.

"Not on your life!"

Just then, the carriage hurtled to a halt, and they both fell backwards onto the red velvet seat.

"What happened?" asked Beatrice, climbing over to peer out the window.

"Beatrice, get down!" hissed Benedick, pulling her away. The sound of voices stung the air: harsh, deep, discordant voices. The twins kept out of sight.

"This looks like a _royal_ carriage," growled one of the voices.

"No - no," squeaked their driver, "I promise you...it's not...we're really quite ordinary..."

Hard, cruel laughter filled the air. "Ordinary? We'll see about that."

Benedick squeezed Beatrice's hand; they both lay, frozen, on the floor of the carriage. Highwaymen! Benedick had read about them in the papers...thinking back, he was half-surprised that they didn't have guards with them for protection. He gulped; his throat was so dry that it hurt.

The sound of approaching steps - Beatrice breathed in sharply. There was a spine-chilling "click" as the door opened.

"Well, well, well," said a voice, "what _have_ we got here?"

But before Benedick could do anything, Beatrice had leapt up, a revolver in her hand (where on earth had she got a revolver?). "Stay away," she said in a low voice, "or you'll be sorry."

The highwayman - rotund, dressed in a faded doublet, with a small black mask threaded around the eyes and grizzly red stubble surrounding his leering smile - laughed.

"I wouldn't laugh if I were you, sir," said Beatrice with an air of authority: "I am an extremely accurate gunwoman." (This is true, thought Benedick - she always hits the middle in shooting practice.)

The highwayman and his nondescript cronies burst into loud, hoarse laughter. "A gun_woman_!" Their laughter made such a crescendo that Benedick thought his ears would explode.

"Yes!" said Beatrice shrilly. "Now would you kindly let us pass..."

"Oh ho ho," said the main highwayman, "not so fast, missy. We'll let your carriage go, of course...but _you_ are coming with us!"

"Yes," cheered the other men, "she's coming with us! A royal hostage!"

"Oh, really," said Beatrice, a corner of her lip curling upwards contemptuously, "well I wouldn't be too sure if I were you."

"Bea! Bea!" whispered Benedick helplessly - "Don't wind them up, you'll get us both killed!"

"_Shh_," hissed Beatrice, "I know what I'm doing!"

"Firstly, though," said another of the men - tall, grimy, with sandy brown hair and eyes that shone through his mask's slits - "...the loot."

And with a shared cackle, the bandits moved towards the back of the carriage, where they would no doubt plunder the suitcases. But just then, Beatrice fired her gun into the air, and rising up on their hind legs, the horses broke into a frenzied gallop. Poking her head out the window, Beatrice looked back at the highwaymen, who had been knocked to the ground by the carriage's sudden motion, and gave them the royal wave.

"That will teach you," she called, "to mess with a princess!"

* * *

Mrs Levy, headmistress of the Interkingdom College for Young Ladies of High Birth, rapped her knuckles against the table. The latest arrival had not yet arrived: Beatrice of Starcastle. Late. Lateness was frowned upon in high circles...

Just then there was a creak as the door opened (Mrs Levy made a mental note to get it oiled).

"Princess Beatrice, Ma'am," said the butler, standing by the door as a girl of about sixteen entered the room. She was dressed in pale blue taffeta, finely sewn, with peacock feathers embroidered over the chest. Those were surely real emeralds and sapphires worked into the pattern! But it was her hair that made an impression on Mrs Levy. Hair the colour, the bright, luminous colour, of carrots.

"Pray sit down, child," said Mrs Levy, in that cold, formal tone that she used to strike fear into the hearts of her schoolgirls. Beatrice did as told; but Mrs Levy fancied she saw a defiant streak in those emerald-green eyes. "How was your journey?" asked the headmistress. This was the question by which she determined the character of new inmates.

Princess Beatrice smiled slightly. Mrs Levy did not like that smile. There was something impish about it. "My journey was fairly tolerable, Ma'am," she said gravely. Mrs Levy drew a sigh of relief: this was the established answer. The tone of voice could, perhaps, have been a little less dramatic, but all in all, satisfactory.

But then Beatrice added, "Though we had to stop several times due to vagabonds, highwaymen and beggars. It seems there is something rotten in the state of Commons." Mrs Levy's mouth opened in astonishment. Any mention of the lower classes was explicitly against decorum, and the criticism of state! - But then, they _were _rather free-thinking in Starcastle. Mrs Levy pressed her lips together. School would break her. That was what school was for.

"I bring a letter from my parents," said Beatrice.

"Thank you," replied the headmistress, taking it. "Pigeon will now take you to your room. I trust you will find it comfortable and convenient."

Beatrice bowed her head. "I'm sure I shall." And, with a sparkle of the eyes, she rose from her seat, and followed the butler out of the room.

As soon as they were out of sight, Mrs Levy took her crystal-embedded letter opener and cut through the royal seal. The paper inside was light, thin, and white as snow. Made from trees, she supposed. Very progressive indeed. Still...nothing like the old parchment.

_Dear Mrs Levy,_ read the letter,

_We are sending you our daughter, who, as she is now sixteen, is now obliged by law to attend Interkingdom College. However, we ask that she should not be impelled to attend sewing, dancing, and etiquette classes, but rather allowed to spend this time studying the classics of literature, philosophy, and mathematics. We trust this shall not be difficult, as we understand the Interkingdom Library has a room full of books on each of these subjects._

_Kind regards,_

_King Redmond and Queen Narcis Etherella of Starcastle_

Mrs Levy stared at the paper in her hands for a moment. This was unheard of! Disgraceful! Never had such a thing happened to her in her twenty years of teaching at the institution. She felt her heart beating faster in her chest. What manners! Breathing deeply, she crumpled the paper in her hands. It gave no resistance. It was fragile, much more fragile than parchment. It crumpled easily.

"Nobody tells _me_ what to do," said the headmistress aloud. And she threw the paper into the fire, watching with strange pleasure as it dissolved in the flames.

* * *

"This is your room, Princess," said Pigeon, in that quaint, mildly peevish tone peculiar to butlers. "The porter will be here shortly with your things."

Beatrice stepped into the room, her lips warped by a repressed smile. Then all of a sudden she burst out laughing.

Pigeon blinked several times, like a dazed owl. "Is...everything all right, Princess?"

The girl collapsed onto the frilly pink bed, still laughing like a wild thing. "Yes," she said, "everything is fine. It's just - I wonder, are all the rooms like this?"

"Like - what, Princess?" asked Pigeon, slightly ruffled. He had never been thus interrogated in his life.

"All bows and lace. Airs and graces. Frills and what-nots."

"What?"

"-Nots."

Pigeon cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. "All the rooms are the same, Princess. Mrs Levy fitted them all up herself with great taste. You will not find more elegant rooms in Europe."

She only snickered. "I'm sorry, Mr Butler, but I don't find this _elegant_. Over-the-top, elaborate, saccharine, yes...but not in the slightest bit elegant. There is elegance in simplicity, Mr Butler, not in artificiality."

"Pigeon," grunted the butler.

"Where?" said the princess, peering out the window.

"Pigeon. That's my name," said Pigeon crossly.

"Oh! Sorry, Mr Pigeon."

"Will that be all, Princess?"

"Yes, yes, you may go." And, as he turned to leave - "Columbidae."

"What's that, Princess?" Pigeon was by now positively frowning.

"Columbidae. That's the family pigeons come from. Within the order Columbiformes?"

"If you say so, Princess. Goodbye."

"Bye." She bit her lip, smiling. Poor man. Perhaps she shouldn't have teased him. Perhaps she shouldn't have shocked him by speaking her mind. But then, after growing up in the dignified simplicity of Starcastle Palace, this room felt ridiculous. She hadn't been within two miles of such baubles since she was five.

Stretching out on the bed, she hummed quietly to herself the song of the toreadors. And then, as if by a miracle, a second voice joined her, harmonising her melody perfectly. She turned to look: it was coming from outside, but she could see nobody. She leapt out of bed with the energy of a gazelle. The voice grew louder, and suddenly a tousled dark head of hair appeared, framed by the open window and the vines curving round it. It was her cousin, Prince Waldstein, with what looked like part of the garden growing inside his brown linen shirt.

"Walden!" she exclaimed, running over to him. "Walden, what on _earth_ are you doing here?"

"_Shh_," he said, carefully climbing into the room. "Is there anybody listening behind the door?"

"No - no, I don't think so," said Beatrice, more softly. "But the porter's supposed to come soon."

"In that case, I'll be quick." He gave her a bear hug, brushing some sharp twigs against her in the process. "Bea, I'm here on a mission."

"On a -"

"Mission, yes. For the Royal Secret Service."

"Oh!" Beatrice looked rather confused. She hadn't heard anything about her cousin joining the Royal Secret Service...

"You know the story of the twelve dancing princesses?" he said. "Well someone's trying to re-enact it here, we think with criminal intent."

"But - no one ever told me you were - "

"First job," said Walden, smiling. "_Don't_ worry, old girl, I'm going to be subtle about it. Got a place as an undergardener."

"Hence the Green Man look."

"Hence the Green Man look," he confirmed, grinning.

"Do your parents know? Do _my_ parents know?"

"N-no," he said, "not exactly."

"Waldo!" she said reproachfully.

"For heaven's sake, you know how I _despise_ that name. No one must know, absolutely no one, not even Mama. The story is that I've run off with some gypsy girl."

"But - "

"Trust me."

"But..._I _know," she pointed out.

"Well...yes. But I thought you might be able to help me."

"_Help _you?" She smiled. How exciting that sounded!

"A bit of inside information. You know the deal." He gave her a wink. "Now I'd really better go, before that confounded porter - "

Just then they heard voices in the corridor. High-pitched, girly voices.

"Run!" whispered Beatrice desperately, helping him back out the window. He clutched at the drainpipe, but just as Beatrice's door opened, the piping gave way - and he went crashing down to the ground.

"What was that?" cried Beatrice's three visitors in unison.

"It's nothing - I'm sure," began Beatrice, but the girls had already rushed over to the window.

"Oh look! A gardener sprawled over the ground!"

"Do you think he's hurt?"

"What's that metal thing on top of him?"

"He must have been attacked!"

"Funny to attack someone with a _drainpipe_, don't you think, Alice?" This was spoken by a tall, dark-haired girl; her voice carried the chill of frost. She was obviously the eldest of the three. "Princess Elise of Mayorbridge," she said, turning to Beatrice and curtseying. Beatrice hurriedly returned the curtsey. "And these are Princesses Alice of Laudum and Therese of Novaria," continued Elise, indicating each with her silk-gloved hand.

"How kind of you to visit me," said Beatrice, remembering her etiquette though her heart was still beating fast.

Elise did not condescend to reply to this. "We will have to report it, of course," she said, walking back over to the window with arched eyebrows. "It is standard procedure to report, anything that is found amiss, you see."

"Q-quite," stuttered Beatrice.

There was a groan: the figure below had begun to move.

"Do you think he is in great pain?" asked the fair one - called Alice, thought Beatrice, making a mental note. Solicitous, kind; perhaps a little inclined to fainting spells and such. Not like the tall one.

Elise now proceeded to exit the room; and Beatrice thought she heard the strangest thing. It sounded as if Elise said, "He will be when I'm done with him." But of course, she must have imagined it. Such an attitude could not be possible even in the most unpleasant person!

As the door closed, the second girl - Therese - turned to Beatrice -

"And what's your name?" When Beatrice told her, she crinkled her nose slightly, and said, "That's an odd name!"

"It's from Much Ado About Nothing," said Beatrice, the colour growing in her cheeks. "By Shakespeare?"

"How very peculiar..."

_"I_ like it," said Alice, as if she was confiding something important.

"You like everything, Alice," said Therese. Alice bit her lip. "Welcome to Interkingdom College, Beatrice."

"I-I'd much rather you just called me Bea."

"Bea?"

"Like the buzzing bee?"

"Sort of. It's a nickname."

"How quaint!" exclaimed Therese. Beatrice had a feeling she wasn't going to like her very much either.

"And you can call me Ally," said Alice, evidently to Therese's disapproval: for she, also, left the room, claiming she had some study to do.

"So how do you like it here?" the petite, blonde princess eagerly enquired as soon as they were alone.

"It's...very interesting," said Beatrice, leaning out the window. Mrs Levy and Elise were pulling a stammering Waldstein off the ground, drainpipe and all. "Very interesting indeed."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hope you liked it. Even if you didn't, **_please review_**_ -_ it makes a _huge_ difference to me and the way I write. Any comments and criticism, whether positive or negative, are greatly encouraged. Thanks, Igi


	2. Waldstein's Brilliant Plan

_**A/N: I'm back! Please, please, please read and review. Things are quite busy for me at the moment, but the more reviews I get, the faster I am bound to update!**_

**_This chapter gets more humorous, if you have patience...but there's also danger lurking at the Yellow Ram Inn..._**

**Chapter Two: Waldstein's Brilliant Plan**

The Yellow Ram Inn buzzed with the sound of voices - voices that were unsteady, voices that swayed back and forth like ancient swings, voices that were sing-song and discordant. The malt whiskey was just too good, and people were known to come from the farthest parts of the Commons just to indulge in a luscious carrot cocktail or a cabbage brandy. Behind the counter, a man of fifty-something with greying hair watched the guests with narrowed eyes, as if calculating the gains and losses caused by this particular crowd. Next to him, a freckle-faced girl polished the plates, filled the glasses, juiced the carrots, and ran back and forth to obey the never-ending cries for more.

"That's it, hussy," said a man who looked like one of Van Gogh's potato eaters - "pour it down, that's a good girl!" She topped up his glass and scurried away to the next customer. Poor kid, thought the potato eater. No time for school, for educating that young brain of hers, just work, work, work. Whitehead's too hard on her. In the old days, little Gretchen had a happy life: her grandfather, Whitehead Senior, doted on her. But now he was gone, and her father had no space for mercy in his small, business-centred mind. This Mr Whitehead, with hair not yet white, was not a man to cross. Perhaps he would mellow with age, like his father. But, sipping his malt whiskey thoughtfully, the potato eater couldn't help but doubt it.

But hello, what's this? He peered around the heads of the people at his table to see what was going on at the bar. Whitehead was engaged in conversation with a man wearing a long coat and a plumed hat. How odd. But then, some people are eccentric. Of course...just another madman. But wait - no, it can't be! He squinted. The man had produced a stash of small pieces of blue and white - surely the new paper money! My God, thought the potato eater, there must be thousands there! - Whitehead, glancing around the room with shifty eyes, now took the money and inserted it into his breastpocket. I should go to the police, thought our unobserved observer. Or even better, the secret service. That's right. Just once I've finished this malt whiskey...don't want to attract attention, you see. I never leave until my glass is empty.

"Can I offer you a refill, sir?" - Here is Gretchen, tall, skimpy, with her troubled eyes. What can I do? I say yes and she refills. Bless her kind heart. I could hardly refuse her. That would be suspicious, and I cannot be suspicious..."Thank you, Gretchen."

The man in the coat had left; Whitehead resumed his sharp-eyed surveyal of the customers. It seemed to him that a man with a big nose and expressive eyes who was sitting at the table closest to him was a little bit too happy with the service. Acting a little strangely. Sipping his malt whiskey a little too slowly. Looking in the direction of the counter a little too often for comfort. Whitehead raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. He did not need to worry. This was their affair, not his. Later tonight he would put the money in a safe place, and he would be clean, absolutely clean. All the same...they say it is better to be safe than sorry.

* * *

It was late, and his head ached. The potato eater bit the inside of his lip, as if it might ease the pain. The last glass of malt whiskey was empty and the world was spinning. _Gretchen...Gretchen...pour me another one._ But she didn't come. Nobody came. The Inn was quiet and dark. So dark his eyes hurt. Was he even at the Inn? Or somewhere else? He didn't know...It was dark, it was late; his head ached. Another glass was all he needed.

But now, voices. Husky, deep, strong. "Where will we put him?"

"You have no ideas?

"You're the head of this operation."

"Alright...how about in the barn?"

"The kid would find him, and there's no trusting kids."

"The cellar?"

"The drunks would find him. You know how it is."

"We'd lock them up."

"No; I have a better plan."

The potato eater's mind was dull and heavy, and couldn't completely register the meaning or the significance of these words. But he knew, sure as anything, that they meant no good. He had a vague notion that he had wanted to go to the police, or the secret service, or something like that. Whatever it was, he was as if paralysed, and couldn't lift a hand. With one last smile he remembered the girl with the freckles and the fleecy hair. Afterwards there was only blackness, and nothingness.

* * *

"Do you have a diary?" asked Waldstein through a mouth half full. A midnight picnic at the furthermost corner of the seemingly endless property that belonged to the Interkingdom College for Ladies of High Birth seemed pointlessly romantic, but it was the only time Beatrice could talk to her cousin properly without being overheard or reported.

"Why do you ask?" said Beatrice, slightly peevishly.

"Oh...no reason." Waldstein swallowed. "Just wondering what you would have so far on the topic of 'My first day at Interkingdom College'."

"_If_ I had a diary, _you _wouldn't be mentioned at all."

"Not at all? O unhappy thought! What have I done to deserve such punishment?"

"Well, for starters, you embarrassed me in front of my first friends here, who from now on won't be my friends at all, who then reported the incident to the principal, who gave me a severe lecture on decorum ('Talking to gardeners through windows is STRICTLY prohibited!'), and further used me as an example at the first assembly: 'How _Not_ to Behave'."

"That's nothing," exclaimed Waldstein: "I got into trouble with the head undergardener, who reported me to the seventh gardener, who took the matter to the associate head gardener, who went to the head gardener, who complained to the Senate of Working Men, which then gave me a caution; and then for the rest of the day I was given the most difficult chores. Furthermore, my back still aches from falling off that ladder."

"Serves you right!" said Beatrice crossly.

"My my," commented Waldstein, "we _are_ in a bad mood today."

"Sorry Walden; I can't help it. Today was the worst day of my life...I can't_ stand_ this horrid school!"

"Don't worry. It can only get better from here on."

"The school, or my life?"

"Both."

"Doubt it. They learn _nothing_ here! My timetable is as follows: eight to nine in the morning: First-Year Sewing Skills; nine to ten: Preliminary Crocheting; ten to eleven: Knitting Rudimentaries; eleven to one in the afternoon: International Etiquette; two to four in the afternoon: Domestic Etiquette; four to five in the afternoon: How to Become Accomplished...it's never-ending brain damage, that's what it is."

"You should be grateful," said Waldstein. "In Mindia, girls don't get any education at all."

"I don't call _this_ an education. Latin, history, geography, maths, English, music, literature, philosophy..._that's_ what _I_ call an education."

"Oh well, can't be helped, can it? Society is the way society is."

"It's as if the Golden Revolution never happened," said Beatrice mournfully.

"Ah Beatrice. You know very well that Starcastle and Emereldom were the only kingdoms who really took the revolution to heart. The others were momentarily impressed, but in the long term just let it sweep them by..."

"I know, I know...but it's so _silly_, Walden. Girls should be treated in exactly the same way as boys..."

"Well, I don't know about _exactly_...but you're right."

"It would be so wonderful to go to a _proper_ school, with girls _and_ boys and a good education for everyone."

"Mmm-hmm." Waldstein grabbed another cream puff.

"I mean, it's so pointless and unnatural, segregating the sexes. We're all equal! Really equal."

"Mmmmm," commented Waldstein, thoughtfully fingering a piece of pecan pie.

"Are you even listening to me, Waldo?"

"Don't call me Waldo!" said Waldstein testily. "And yes, I am listening. But the sexes aren't really equal, as you say. Men will always be stronger, better at certain things; women will always be weaker, and better at...other things."

"My God, you're such a chauvinist!" exclaimed Beatrice. "I wouldn't have your attitude for a kingdom!"

"But it's true," said Waldstein, "I'm being serious. I'm not saying that women are in any way worse than men -"

"I'm glad to hear _that_!"

"But the sexes complement each other. They have different strengths and different weaknesses. Only together can they form a harmonious society."

"With the women - the common women, that is - cooking and cleaning and burping the children, and the men having brilliant careers?"

"More or less. It's the natural order of things - at least the being-at-home-with-the-children part. Mothers are meant to look after their children. And women are meant to be mothers. And if you want to look after your children properly, you more or less can't have a career."

"I'd give anything to prove to you," murmured Beatrice, "that women are just as capable as men."

"Unfortunately you can't," grinned Waldstein, "so there."

"Anyway," said Beatrice, "let's not argue. Tell me about these disappearing princesses."

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Why not? "

"We could be overheard."

"Here? Don't be ridiculous!"

"Here. There could be someone listening behind the bushes. In fact, I'm convinced there is." And he proceeded to get up and shine a lantern into the moonlit glade behind their picnic area.

"Waldstein, don't be silly," said Beatrice, "there's nobody there."

"Oh really? Then what - may I ask - is this?" Walden dragged a skinny red-haired boy from the bushes.

"Benedick!" exclaimed Beatrice.

"Benedick," agreed Walden.

"What on _earth_ are you doing here?" asked Beatrice.

"I've run away from school," said Benedick.

"But it was your first day!" said Beatrice.

"You didn't run very far," commented Waldstein. It was true: the wall next to them separated the Interkingdom College for Young Ladies of High Birth from the Interkingdom College for Young Gentlemen of High Birth.

"I had to," moaned Benedick, "it was awful! All that Latin!"

"All that Latin," repeated Beatrice wishfully.

"All that fencing and history and geography! All that maths! All that geometry!"

"Geometry..." sighed Beatrice.

"It's just not fair," said Benedick firmly. "How is a creative mind such as mine supposed to survive in such a packed schedule? 8am to 6pm, drill drill drill, facts facts facts, memorise memorise memorise. I mean, it's all very interesting, but a _machine_ would be better off in the circumstances! I can't _breathe_Walden!" He wrung his hands in the manner of Lady Macbeth. "...Oh, hello Beatrice," he added, leaning over to hug her.

"It seems to me," said Waldstein, "that you would prefer your lovely twin sister's curriculum more."

"What _is_ Bea's curriculum?"

So Beatrice told him. Benedick shook his head once she had finished. "You see? It's just not fair. In a curriculum like that, you have space to imagine up your own worlds. A literary genius like me needs time to puzzle out plots, to phrase and rephrase sentences in his mind. Furthermore, a musical genius like me would benefit from the addition of three days a week of music to his timetable, just as Bea has. Oh, it really is unfair..."

"Sit down," instructed Waldstein, chewing philosophically on his - fiftieth? - cream puff, "and have something to eat."

"At this time of night?" said Benedick indignantly. "What decadence! My father would never allow it."

"Your father is hardly a saint, you know," said Waldstein, a twinkle in his eye. At this Benedick puffed up like an owl.

"My father, King Redmond of Starcastle, is the most perfectly dignified and illustrious person on this planet."

"Is he," said Waldstein.

"Yes!" chorused Benedick and Beatrice.

"Whatever you say," returned Waldstein. "I happen to know, however, that he was quite roguish in his youth."

"Roguish?"

"Never!"

"Yes, roguish." Waldstein surveyed a third plate of cream puffs. "I happen to know - from a _very_ reliable source - that your perfectly dignified and illustrious father went to moonlit picnics and played many a prank in his youth, and also..." - he hesitated between the cream puffs and the pecan pie - "...dressed in women's clothes."

"Walden!" said Beatrice in shocked tones.

"You tell a lie, sir," said Benedick staunchly, "I refuse to believe such slander."

"My mother," said Waldstein, raising his voice, "never tells lies. And it was she who told me. Yes, your father cross-dressed. Pretended to be a woman. On more than one occasion, too. And before you try to protest, don't forget that my venerable mother, Queen Esmerelda of Emereldom, is your father's sister, and knows much more of his past than _you_ do."

"Well," said Benedick hesitantly, "I suppose...there is nothing wrong with moonlit picnics."

"Good," encouraged Waldstein.

"And there's nothing that makes a person of noble nature less so if he plays pranks," said Beatrice.

"Exactly," said Waldstein.

"And there is nothing undignified about cross-dressing," said Benedick slowly, " - For a good purpose."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Waldstein, clapping his hands. "Now, have a cream puff," he said, offering the plate to Benedick. Benedick gingerly took one.

"Well," said Waldstein, "now that we have established that there is nothing at all wrong with cross-dressing for a good purpose, I may as well lay out my ingenious plan to both of you. It really is brilliant," he added, taking one last piece of pecan pie.

"What is your plan?" asked Benedick.

"Is it anything to do with the vanishing princesses?" asked Beatrice.

"Yes and no." Waldstein smiled mysteriously. "Have you two ever been told that you look alike?"

"Yes, numerous times," said Benedick.

"That to the untrained eye, the only thing that really sets you apart is that Benedick wears trousers and cropped hair and Beatrice a skirt and long locks?"

"Yes," said Beatrice, wondering where this was going.

"Well," said Waldstein triumphantly, "my plan is this: switch places!"

"I'm sorry?" repeated Benedick as though he must have heard wrong.

"Switch places! Beatrice will get her Latin and her geography, and Benedick will be able to dream up his masterpieces over his sewing, in addition to reporting straight to me on the affair of the vanishing princesses."

"But I was going to do that," said Beatrice, sounding a little hurt.

"Yes, but Benedick is already part of the Secret Service, and to tell the truth, it would put you, Beatrice, in danger to handle any information regarding this intrigue. I had already thought about this. And now I have the perfect solution."

"Benedick is part of the Secret Service?"

"Yep. Beatrice, have a piece of pecan pie. It'll calm your nerves."

"_Benedick_ is part of the Secret Service?"

"Yes, I repeat, have some pie!"

"I don't believe it," said Beatrice. "Benedick is part of the Secret Service and nobody asks me to be in it too!"

"That's mainly because," said Benedick carefully, "women aren't allowed in the Service."

"It's men only," explained Waldstein. "But Beatrice, if you pretend to be Benedick, you'll have to take his place - formally, anyway."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Beatrice.

"Which means that Benedick can do the dangerous stuff and you can absorb all the glory. Perfect."

"I can prove to you that I'm equal to a man's work," murmured Beatrice, not listening.

"Yes," said Waldstein, "yes, you can."

"There's one problem though - I am _not_ donning a dress!" said Benedick.

"Why not?" asked Waldstein, a cunning smile growing on his lips: "Your father did."

* * *

**A/N (update): Thank you for the wonderful reviews so far. Unfortunately I had a crazy dream last night. I dreamt that I had 16 reviews for the story (yes, actually, I dreamed about this site...among other things) [BTW, both dreamed and dreamt are correct]. Anyway, I've decided not to update until those 16 reviews are there in real life as well. I know this is greedy and evil and not a little bit silly of me, but I'm going to stick to it. At least for the time being. I'm already itching to tell you what happens next (there's going to be an Initiation Ball for both the women's and the men's colleges, and Benedick will...yes, and Jim-*cough* King James will be...yes, and King Redmond and Queen Nelly will...in the...yes), so I suspect I'll just cave in. On the other hand, I am busy, so I might be stubborn like I was last time, and not give in until a year has passed. :P So...yes. By the way, I am beginning to get rid of my bad habit of just writing and not reading and reviewing other people's work. That's just bad karma...so wish me luck...**

**Enough of that. Basically, I look forward to seeing you all sooner or later and updating you with the situation at I.C. (Interkingdom College). I'm also going to add a scene to the beginning of Chapter One about how Nelly and Redmond give the twins a teary farewell as they leave for school...by the by. But until then, **

_**I've just finished an epic trailer for The Ivory Peacock, and would like to share it with you. Go to my Profile page for the YouTube link. I'm very excited about it, and I hope you will be too!**_

**By the way, since I no longer say this in the summary, I thought it was courtesy to let you know that this is actually the sequel to my earlier (and much more popular) story _The Silver Butterfly_. There's no problem if you haven't read it, _The Ivory Peacock_ functions perfectly well (or at least I hope it does) on its own. On the other hand, if I don't update in a while and you get bored, or if you have a curious streak, you can always have a look at it. Maybe just at the last three or four chapters, they basically summarise the whole story. ;)**

**That was horribly long-winded. Well, maybe you skipped it. At any rate, au revoir for now!**


	3. Alice

**Chapter Three: Alice**

_"Love that is not madness is not love." - Pedro Calderon de la Barca_

Benedick scowled as he hobbled down the corridor with great difficulty, cursing the person who had invented high heels (Catherine de Medici, he thought Beatrice had said once, but then he hadn't really been listening...). This whole ruse was as ridiculous as it was undignified - he didn't care _what_ Waldstein said. But all in the line of duty. He sighed. He had imagined that being in the Secret Service would be glamorous, glorious, and a whole line of other dazzling adjectives besides; instead he was stuck wearing a pink frock and shoes that were absolute hell to walk in. Such is life, thought Benedick, with a martyred sigh - such is life.

A couple of (very pretty) girls passed him, giggling, and for a moment he felt rather pleased with himself - it was, after all, always a good sign when girls giggled at the sight of him. It meant that they were impressed, that they thought he was a "looker" (as the common man would say). Which, of course, he was. But - damnation. He was supposedly a girl too - repulsive! - and instantaneously the giggles of admiration turned into giggles of complete and utter silliness. He scowled even more, resolving never to be Waldstein's pawn again.

"Beatrice?" said a sweet voice. Like a chocolate eclair, he thought sourly; he had never liked chocolate eclairs. He looked up reluctantly, because he had to. In front of him was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He immediately retracted his previous judgement. "Beatrice, I'm so glad I found you!" she continued. "I've _got_ to ask your opinion on which dress I should wear..." And without further ado, she grabbed him by the hand and whisked him off to who knows where. Now this, he thought, this I don't mind so much...

"Have you been at the I.C. for long?" ventured Benedick, as they whirled through the corridors. I.C. was what Waldstein, a graduate, called it, so he assumed it was stylish.

"No, I'm a first year, like you," she said, a look of surprise making her crystalline features look somehow even more attractive.

"Oh yes, of course," mumbled Benedick. He didn't usually feel embarrassed in front of girls. While the fact that he was wearing a dress may have been the cause of his undue awkwardness, mentally analysing himself he decided it was only one of many factors. What the other factors were, though, he couldn't tell...he could only tell that her violet eyes sent a chill through him every time they happened to meet his.

"We have to hurry," she was saying, "classes start in half an hour..."

Benedick screwed his eyebrows together in trying to remember what the first class was, but his carefully-memorised timetable had fallen out of his mind with one clean swoop the moment he saw her. But, almost as if reading his mind, she said: "I can't believe they make us study cookery...after all, that's what servants are for! But apparently according to I.C. standards you're not accomplished unless you can cook all sorts of fine meals as well." She called it I.C. too. What a relief. Benedick even felt a bit proud of himself.

They had finally got to an ornately-carved door with "Alice of Laudum" written on it, which she proceeded to open. Her name is Alice, he thought, almost too happy for words at the discovery. Alice...They entered her room. It was exactly the same as Beatrice's, only...neater.

"Wait there," she instructed, disappearing behind the wardrobe with a swish of expensive fabrics. But the wardrobe did not completely cover her and Benedick saw rather more than he ought. He tried to look away, but somehow his eyes wouldn't listen to him. When she emerged she looked - if it was possible - even more beautiful than before.

The dress she was wearing was a rich affair, gold and silver raw silk decked with diamonds, ornately designed. It matched her blonde hair perfectly, brought out the deepest violet in her eyes...where before he couldn't stop himself from staring, now he found himself compelled to avert his gaze. It was like looking at the sun: she was so dazzling his eyes hurt to look at her.

"Don't you like it?" asked the chocolate eclair voice. It was so adorable in its disappointment that the next thing he knew he was by her side clasping her by the hands, saying:

"Of _course_ I like it!" - And then her stunned face - he immediately drew away, feeling his ears go red. To Hell with Waldstein and his crazy ideas. He felt like tearing off his wig there and then and saying: "I'm a _boy!_ I'm a _boy!_ Can't you _see_ that?" But instead he was silent and directed his gaze at the floor. Blasted Waldstein. Zounds. (*)

"I thought I'd wear it to the ball tonight," she said hesitantly, and he could almost hear her frown. He looked up - he had been right. Her brow was slightly crinkled, her mouth set in a small pout that made him want to...

"Wait a minute - " he blustered, only then realising what she had said. "_The ball?_ What ball?"

The pouting mouth opened in surprise. Oh my God...he looked at the floor again. He couldn't stand this. "The Initiation Ball, Beatrice!" she exclaimed, and he could almost taste the chocolate, the creamy dark chocolate...he didn't like eclairs, but he could never refuse anything with cocoa in it.

"The Initiation Ball?" he repeated.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, looking at him as though he - er, "she" - had suddenly gone mad. "The Initiation Ball is always held on the second day of the first term, to welcome the new girls to school!"

I'm going to _strangle_ that Waldstein! "But," he said in a puzzled tone, "who will they - I mean we - dance with?"

She shook her head. "Oh Bea!" - _Ben_, it's _Ben_, he pleaded inwardly. "Bea, have you forgotten? The boys from the Young Men's I.C. are coming!"

He could have slapped himself over the face. How could he have been so witless? - Forget strangling, he was going to drag that rogue down into the torture chamber and...

He had never felt so utterly helpless. If he hadn't switched places with Beatrice, he might have danced with this vision, this goddess, tonight - might have dazzled her with his own charm. As it was, he would have to listen to her telling him, in an oh-so-excited voice, about all the good-looking boys she had danced with. He could hear it now: "Isn't he cute! - He dances so well! - Him, on the other hand - why he couldn't tell a waltz from an allemande!" - O, that his flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a _dew_!...Even Hamlet had been better off, with his dead father and remarrying mother...essentially nothing to complain about! Benedick, on the other hand...

"Why so crestfallen, Beatrice?" she sounded concerned. Bless her kind heart! - Pained, irked, and exhausted, Benedick glanced at the wall for inspiration. The mahogany cuckoo clock read five minutes to eight.

"The time!" he exclaimed, almost forgetting his falsetto. "We'll be late!"

"Oh no!" She looked genuinely terrified. She rushed over to the wardrobe, and not even bothering to hide behind it began to tear off her shoes, her dress...

"Oh, it's stuck!" she moaned. "Beatrice, help me!" And he found himself untying her laces...his hands were too large. They fumbled with the dainty knots.

Two minutes later, Alice was wearing an everyday dress (emerald taffeta studded with garnets) and they were tearing across the grounds in search of Room A56. A minute and a half left, and they still hadn't found it...a minute...Benedick cursed aloud. He had fallen onto the ground, tearing his dress, and a searing pain spread through his ankle. She leaned down towards him and felt the ankle - gently, carefully - and announced that it was sprained.

* * *

The nurse tut-tutted as she bandaged the miscreant ankle firmly and tightly. Benedick cursed Waldstein for the hundredth time that day. His foot ached like nothing else, and Alice now looked on him with pity, which could not have been further from what he wanted. Alright, if he had not been dressed up as a girl it would not have been so bad. The way she look at him with the sad, sorry eyes of a dog whose owner had been hurt...if not for this ghastly masquerade it might have been quite romantic. He sighed. On the bright side, at least they had not got into trouble for being late for class. He had been excused from going to class altogether, and Alice had been allowed to make herself useful to the nurse.

"Ow!" He couldn't help groaning. She was as strong as an ox, this nurse. Father could do with someone like her in the army...not that they really needed an army, but still, as it was the Starcastle Armada was the laughing-stock of the Commons. All those piddly little soldiers... "Guh!" - He could still see that circle of princesses gathered round him...a sprained ankle! Oh how they had laughed...he crinkled his nose. Princesses indeed. Their behaviour was no better than the selfish swine who frequented the Yellow Ram Inn in Thorny. Good God. Royally awful.

"Now, young lady," said the nurse in her very unsubtle, uncouth, throaty voice. "You mind you rest for the rest of the week."

"The rest of the _week_?" Benedick had never heard of anything so ridiculous. Sprained ankles were hardly anywhere on the scale of woeful injuries, they had been learning about these things in Valiant Knighthood class yesterday. As much he had detested the class, he now thought of it with yearning...if only he was there instead of here, stuck with this dratted foot and this dratted nurse.

"Oh, poor Beatrice!" said Alice. "That means you won't be able to go to the Ball!"

This was actually a consolation. Benedick tried hard not to smile: he didn't know how to dance the woman's part. This ankle, he thought, might well prove to be a godsend...I'll just sit here, staring at The Angel, becoming more and more inspired for this story that's shaping itself in my mind...

"I'll leave you now," said the nurse (thank God!), "And Princess Alice, you may go also. Beatrice requires complete rest."

Something sunk within him. The nurse scuffled out the door, and Alice turned to follow her. "Don't go!" he yelped. She stopped, looked at him with questioning eyes.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said, desperate resolve taking hold of his mind.

She came and sat down on his bed. "Yes?"

Oh my God, thought Benedick, I can't do this... "There's something I need to...tell you..." he repeated. She was patient; she smiled.

"What is it?" she asked gently.

"I'm not...what I seem to be..." he began, his conscience giving a sharp twinge. He had promised Waldstein not to reveal his identity to anyone. But, he assured himself, Alice isn't just "anyone". She is "someone", someone infinitely special...and he realised with a smile that his thoughts were as cliche as those of the worst writer in the universe. No matter. When you're in love, you don't think straight...

"Not what you seem to be?"

"No..." He reached for his wig, preparing to take it off, "You see..."

And just then, two girls in blue frocks burst into the room. They looked completely different, but their manner was exactly the same. Their mouths hung open like those of dogs who had been running, and their tongues, lolling out slightly, looked on the brink of issuing words of importance. Waldstein, thought Benedick, I am really going to get you for this.

* * *

**Author's Note: As you can see, I didn't last it out. I think not only of myself; after all, delaying an update because of some childish dream would be unfair to the lovely people who _did_ review. So here it is, the next chapter. On the short side, perhaps too much on the sweet side, and definitely very much on the cheesy side, but I hope you liked it. For those who missed the announcement at the end of the last chapter, a video trailer for the story is now up on my YouTube account, and the link is on my profile page.**

**And as ever...please review! It will take me an eternity to update if you don't... ;)**

_(*) "Zounds" is an Elizabethan expletive, short for "By God's wounds". Once a swearword of some potence, it had become much milder in the newly-united Commons in the 18th century._


	4. Grave misdemeanour

**A/N: Many thanks as usual to my lovely reviewers. So, I now have the flu; ironically this means I'm updating sooner than I thought I would. Finally a chapter that's a bit "spicy". You also get to meet Enemy No. 1. Probably won't be updating again in a while, though, unless there's lots of interest (translation: Dear-Readers-Please-Review!).**

**Chapter Four: Grave misdemeanour**

_Cherish your enemies. - The Dalai Lama_

The schoolmaster surveyed the classroom with narrowed eyes, taking in each face, each defiant brow. Boys were always the worst when they were fresh from their holidays; their resentment was like a towering wall that insulated them against learning. As to the first-years - green and inexperienced little sods - they would be badly influenced by the seniors unless he did something about it. The idea of these occasional combined classes was to have the older boys inspire and enlighten the younger ones; Mr Pebmarsh, however, thought it was an idea that should have been left to the theorists. Nevertheless, it was headmaster's orders, and orders were orders.

His eyes now alighted on a particular senior: Brandon Rose - tall, honey brown hair, perfect results, perfect behaviour; prefect. Yes, this was the way to go. Rose would lead the class.

"Rose," said Mr Pebmarsh.

"Yes, sir?"

"Rise."

"Yes, sir."

And Rose rose.

An easy smile played on his face; Pebmarsh was reminded why this boy was the teacher's pet of so many colleagues. He had a type of charm that was hard to come by in a student; perhaps, thought Pebmarsh, who was a bit of an anarchist - perhaps it is because Brandon is not of royal blood, but son of the explorer Cyril Rose. What a father! He had discovered five different islands near Mindia, and brought relations between the Commons and Mindia to a whole new level. Mr Rose must have paid a fortune to get his son-without-connections into this school. Of course, there were rumours that Brandon was also the illegitimate son of Queen Tara of Laudum...but those were just rumours.

"Tell us about the founding of the Commons."

Rose smiled affably. "The Commons were founded in the year 1767 as a direct result of the Golden Revolution of 1766, which swept through seventeen kingdoms, twenty-eight duchies, three hundred lordships, a hundred and nine fiefs, fifty-six estates and two papacies. All of these lesser lands were united into one state, called the Commons. Though each land continued to be ruled by its original ruling family, a single government was formed, which controlled a set of laws that became applied to all the lands. The System ensured peace between nations and a united economy that ensured new privileges for all. The extremely complex rules of the System are outlined in the extremely long and influential Treaty, concocted by the royalty of Emereldom and signed by the rulers of all the lands to be included in the Commons.

"However, although the Treaty upheld high egalitarian values, stipulating that the poor must be treated as equals, given enough bread to permanently ward off starvation, and so on, few kingdoms actually followed its rules in detail; royalty and nobility alike preferred to enjoy the advantages of the new economy without changing their previous attitudes towards the Common Man. While it is no secret that, to this day, the Treaty is not being followed in all particulars, there is nothing that can be done, as the Supreme Government itself only follows the portions of the Treaty it condescends to agree with. Nevertheless, historians agree that the majority of rulers were in fact forced to sign the Treaty using violence. The Masked Men, an infamous secret society, threatened those who would not agree and finally persuaded them to yield. As a result, it is unsurprising that these rulers decline to follow the Treaty to the word."

"Very good, Rose," said Mr Pebmarsh - "You may sit down."

The schoolmaster was about to go on to the next topic when he noticed a redhead at the back of the classroom waving his hand frantically in the air in an effort to be noticed. A first-year - what was his name? Oh that's right, Benedick. The one who couldn't even remember the capital of Baravia yesterday. What could he have to say?

"Prince Benedick, what do you have to say?" he asked aloud. Benedick rose from his seat. Though he was gangly, freckled, and at the same time strangely pixie-like, he looked fairly smart in his uniform.

"If you will pardon me, Mr Pebmarsh," said Benedick, "he is not completely correct. It is true that the Golden Revolution was formally declared on the sixth of March, 1766; but there was already political unrest simmering beneath the surface in 1765. Underground revolutionary gatherings took place as early as the July of that year. Also, the Masked Men were in fact a peaceable group, rarely if ever resorting to violence. Master Rose also neglected to mention that Queen Esmerelda of Emereldom played an important role in the revolution and the founding of the Commons. It was in fact she and not King James who wrote the Treaty, although this detail is tactfully overlooked by many a historian who thinks it against the rules of etiquette for a woman to be involved in politics. However, such enlightened scholars as Vitus and Bergerac de Villars give credit where credit is due; they make it their business to seek out the unadulterated truth and let it be known to the world. Despite being controversial, both men are highly respected in their field. Therefore it is safe to say that any history of the Commons is an incomplete one if it does not at least brush on the fact that the Treaty was written by a woman. I say this simply for the sake of accuracy."

The class sat in stunned silence. Was this the boy who, yesterday, couldn't tell Kravarus from Arjesthad? Why, thought Pebmarsh, he knows more about the Revolution than _I _do! Is it possible? Do miracles really happen overnight?

"If you please, Mr Pebmarsh," said Rose, standing up, "I should like to comment on my challenger's words."

"Of course," said poor Mr Pebmarsh, "go right ahead."

"While it is true," said the senior, "that Vitus and Bergerac de Villars are highly respected scholars, they are also quixotic ones. The reason other historians do not attribute the Treaty to Esmerelda of Starcastle is not misogyny but a simple lack of evidence. Vitus and de Villars, venerable though they may be, only cite one source for Esmerelda's penmanship, and that is the second edition of the highly dubious book _The Silver Butterfly_, written by Queen Esmerelda herself. Given that there are no other sources, and that Queen Esmerelda's veracity is in this case questionable, it seems impossible to prove that it was she who wrote the Treaty. As far as we know, the only witness is King James himself, and he declines to talk about it. Whether we like it or not, History remains to be the pursuit of fact, not the domain of fantasy.

"As to my new classmate's other point, there were several witnesses attesting to the Masked Men's violence, among them my own father, the honourable Cyril Rose, and Her Majesty Queen Tara the Magnificent. The Masked Men were masters of cruelty and crude trickery insofar as it served their own purposes. Furthermore, their cause was a selfish one. Where they talked of democracy and equality, all they really wanted was for King Redmond and King James to ascend their respective thrones. It was all a power game."

"I am sorry," said Benedick, "but I fail to see how, even if what you said was true, the Masked Men's cause would be 'selfish'."

"Really?" said Brandon Rose, raising and eyebrow. "Then I suggest you do a bit of relevant reading. It is accepted in most historical circles that the Masked Men were in fact a group of young princes in disguise. Their ringleaders were Prince James and Prince Redmond; these two doubtless offered the others bounteous rewards if they achieved their thrones as planned. Therefore yes, I would call it selfish."

"What proof have you that King Redmond was one of the Masked Men?" demanded Benedick. His colour had risen; he was blushing a furious scarlet, right to the tips of his (already red) hair.

"As I said," said Rose, "you'll find it in any good history book. Simply look up King Redmond. Cruelty, hedonism, despotism - it's all there. I suggest you go and look it up in the library when it is next convenient."

Benedick looked as if Rose had slapped him on the face and then tied him up and thrown him into the river. Slowly, measuredly, he walked away from his desk and towards Rose, who was smirking as affably as he might had the conversation been about the weather. And then, when they were face to face, he said, in a low growl of a voice: "Take that back."

"I'm sorry," said Rose, laughing, "but I can't. It's history."

"Benedick, go back to your seat," barked Pebmarsh, deciding it was time to intervene. But Benedick acted as though he had not heard.

"Take it back," repeated Benedick. "You offend the honour of my family when you speak ill of my father in such a gruesome way."

"I repeat, I'm sorry," said Rose, "I did not know he was your father. However, I am merely paraphrasing others; perhaps you should take it out with them. After all, even scholars are sometimes wrong, and even sound evidence is sometimes proved apocryphal. But so far there is no reason to believe that it is so. It grieves me that you should find out about your father like this and not first-hand."

"So you really will not take it back?"

"No, not until it is proved otherwise."

"Then I have no option," said Benedick, his green eyes gleaming fury. "I feel myself impelled to say this: Your father, the famous explorer Cyril Rose, was a womaniser, a gambler, and an all-round swine. He made the lives of many miserable. He played cards on borrowed money which he never returned. He swindled the poor, abused the needy. He almost seduced his own sister."

Rose's smile had faded. He no longer looked charming or easy-going. His cold blue eyes had something akin to shining swords. "Even if all of this were true," he said in a steady voice, "it would hardly be impressive alongside a list of _your_ father's sins."

And before Pebmarsh could open his mouth, Benedick had lunged at Rose, Rose had tackled him, Benedick had punched him in the eye, and Rose had shaken his assailant off onto the floor.

"STOP IT!" roared Pebmarsh. "Back to your seats! Both of you!" And once they had obeyed - "Is this a way to behave? You, Brandon Rose, a star pupil? A prefect, rolling on the ground like a farm pig?"

"I am sorry sir," said Rose, looking all the handsomer for his black eye, "I was provoked."

"Provoked fiddlesticks. A gentleman knows how to _control_ himself!"

"Yes sir."

"As for you, you scamp," said Pebmarsh, turning to Benedick, "I expect better behaviour from you from now on, is that understood? If you continue in this way I will not have any other option but to recommend your dismissal from the school."

Benedick only glared at Rose, who said, rather calmly: "You must not be too hard on him, sir. He cannot help it. He has inherited this violent personality from his father. We really ought to be sorry for him."

"Enough!" said Mr Pebmarsh furiously. "Detention, both of you! I will see you after class."

* * *

All the boys were leaving; Benedick and Rose, however, sat at their desks...pointedly ignoring one another.

"I'm sorry about what he said about your father," said Daniel de Mercedes, son of the Duke of Mercredi, to Benedick: "I know it isn't true."

Beatrice scowled. She had it up to _here _with being Benedick; up to _here _with men in general. "Thanks," she said shortly, without even looking up. Why didn't he just go and leave her to her misery?

"Benedick..." began Daniel, "this may sound strange to you, but I wanted to ask...what is your sister's favourite dance?"

Beatrice looked up. The boy, a senior, had a sultry glow of darkness, handsomeness, brooding-ness, in short all the qualities she admired in a man. "My sister's?" she said, in her finest contralto.

"Yes. I spotted her getting out of the carriage at the girls' college yesterday morning...I was there to deliver a message to the headmistress, and saw her by chance - Beatrice, I mean...never have I seen such a radiant sight in my life."

Beatrice thought she must be dreaming. "Really?" she said, in a voice decidedly more high-pitched. And then, to rectify her mistake, she joked: "Wait, do you mean my sister, or the headmistress?"

He laughed. He had a wonderful laugh. Like a deep forest brook. "Your sister, of course! I only thought that if I knew her favourite dance, it might be easier to reserve a place on her card for the ball."

She couldn't believe it! Oh, that Waldstein, playing on her impossible dreams of proving feminine capability - he had tricked her! Now she was stuck with being her brother.

"Her favourite dance," she said, repressing a sigh, "is the _courante_."

"Thank you, Benedick." Daniel de Mercedes beamed. "I owe you one. Well, I'll see you at the ball!" And enjoy your detention, thought Beatrice sourly to herself.

* * *

"Well," said Mr Pebmarsh once everyone else had left, his eyes glowing with what looked like satisfaction. Sadist, thought Beatrice. "First of all, I want you both to apologise."

This was not difficult for Beatrice. "I'm very sorry for my behaviour, Mr Pebmarsh," she said meekly - and she half meant it. Sullying poor Benedick's reputation on the second day of school - not the best of starts, really.

"No, no, _no_, my dear Prince," said Mr Pebmarsh, a ratty smile growing on his lips, "not to _me!_ To _each other_!"

Brandon Rose glanced at Beatrice for the first time since the fight. He scowled, and for a fleeting moment Beatrice was reminded of her father. Then that moment passed, and she despised the horrid creature all the more.

Nostrils flared, Rose extended his hand to her. "I apologise for my behaviour," he said gracefully.

"You mean you apologise for insulting my father!" exclaimed Beatrice. She did not shake hands.

"No, I apologise for fighting with you," said Rose. Cold blue eyes, like frozen lakes, thought Beatrice - but I must not look at them. They are evil, wrong.

"Then I shan't apologise for insulting _your_ father, either," said Beatrice contemptfully.

"Very well," said Mr Pebmarsh. "You can't apologise properly to one another. Fine, we'll do it a different way. Come with me," he said, and he lit a candle and led them out the door and into the fresh air. They went down countless flights of steps, turned countless turns, until they had reached a series of underground passages. Beatrice kept looking behind her as if they were being followed.

"What is it, Benedick?" jeered Rose. "Scared of the dark? Monsters prowling?"

"I thought I saw a shadow behind us," muttered Beatrice.

"_Very_ scary," said Rose wryly.

The steps were irregular and slippery, and they had to constantly be on their guard so that they would not fall into the black pit below. Finally, they arrived at their destination.

"The dungeon!" breathed Rose, almost as if impressed.

"Yes," said Mr Pebmarsh with that toothy smile of his, "the dungeon!" He sounded as if he was really enjoying himself.

"I love dungeons," said Beatrice, with more than a hint of sarcasm. "I wish I lived in one!"

"Well that's exactly what you're going to do, Master Benedick," said Mr Pebmarsh, raising his eyebrows, "for the next few hours."

"What do you want us to do, Mr Pebmarsh?" asked Rose helpfully. Beatrice rolled her eyes eyes.

"Oh, it's very simple, really," said Pebmarsh, using his candle to light the torches that were attached to the stone walls, "all you have to do is get that machine over there to work." He pointed to a rusty old thing with cog-wheels and all sorts of strange parts, some of which had fallen out of it and onto the floor.

"What is it?" asked Beatrice doubtfully.

"Very good question," said Pebmarsh. "Nobody knows. It's been like that for centuries; it was discovered here when this castle was first turned into a school."

"With all respect," said Rose, sounding not respectful at all, "how do we know that it's even possible to fix?"

"We don't," said Pebmarsh gleefully.

"But..." began Beatrice in a small voice.

"Sir," said Rose urgently, "I promised a certain young lady I would be at the Initiation Ball tonight. It would be against all the rules of etiquette if I didn't meet her there!"

"Well that's very sad," said Pebmarsh, "but unfortunately for you, young man, _neither_ of you are going to the Ball unless you fix the machine. That's my last word on the matter." He even pronounced the full stop. "Have fun!" he said, and with that, he began to scale the stairs.

"But sir," Rose called after him, "if we do fix it, how will we get out to tell you?"

"You won't have to," returned Pebmarsh. "See the green button by the door? Just press that. A bell will be sounded and someone will come to inspect your work."

"I bet they use this place to punish countless miscreants," muttered Rose. And when Beatrice made no reply, he added, more loudly, "Oh, don't think I'm speaking to _you_, I'm just talking to myself."

"That is quite obvious," said Beatrice drily. Suddenly she was very glad she was wearing Benedick's clothes and that Waldstein had cut her hair; under normal circumstances she might have felt more vulnerable. I mean, she thought, there's no trusting a Rose...my family and his have been enemies for God knows how long.

They both looked around the place doubtfully. The dungeon was presumably medieval, thought Beatrice, probably late fourteenth century, judging from the way the stones are cut and the height of the arches. Hardly elaborate, but still architecturally satisfying. Having done the full 360 degrees, she found herself looking at Brandon, and he at her. They both gave an odd sort of haughty cough and walked over to the machine from opposite sides.

Beatrice examined the apparatus. What on earth could it be? An old torture instrument? Hardly. A printing machine? No place to put the ink. She knelt down to pick up some of the parts off the floor, and saw through the gaps in the machine that _he_ was doing the same. So be it; she would take her own course of action. She sorted the large cog wheels from the pinions from the escape wheels one the dank dirty floor and began to search for relevant places to put them in the machine. She knew little of mechanics; Benedick had gone through a "I'm going to be the next Leonardo da Vinci" phase and had talked endlessly about the machines he was going to build, but very little of it had rubbed off on her. Perhaps I should listen more carefully Benedick when we're together again, she thought with a sigh. Oh well. Let's get to work, Beatrice.

Outwardly resilient though she was, a small voice at the back of her head moaned that nothing short of a fairy godmother would be able to get her to the ball that night.


	5. The Black Cave

**A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! You're all amazing, and I promise I'll read and review your work too as soon as I have time. At the moment things are ridiculously hectic, but I felt it was my responsibility to give you another chapter explaining certain things. I hope it's not too confusing, as it was written (as always) quickly. Sadistprincess, thanks for pointing out the fact I was unclear about Daniel seeing Beatrice herself arriving at the I.C. - I promise I'll fix it! Also, MertleYuts, you helped me decide to put this chapter into this part of the story timeline (I had been saving it till later) as it explains Beatrice's relationship to Brandon Rose and the reality of the Masked Men.**

**That said...the next chapter will be much funnier. I promise. Beatrice _and_ Benedick will both make an appearance. ;)**

* * *

**The Black Cave**

_All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. - Edgar Allan Poe_

They - the travellers - could not tell if the sky was white and the trees black, or the trees white and the sky black. Everything had shifted into a kind of dream. The woman in the white cloak, who rode a black horse, was almost indistinguishable from the man next to her, who differed only in that he wore a black cloak and rode a white horse. If anyone looked at closely at their faces, they would see the same lines drawn on them, the same stories written on them by the swift brush of Fate. They were different, and yet the same.

Behind them, the child and the jester were the only pieces of colour in the landscape. The child - a girl of twelve or thirteen, with wide brown eyes and silken chestnut hair - wore a red travelling cloak, and underneath it an old, comfortable, faded blue dress. Her horse, or rather pony, was the same colour as her hair, and whinnied occasionally to add spice to the silence. Beside the girl, the jester - recognisable by his strange red cap that made him look like a rooster, and his motley coat - rode on a donkey that, despite being as grey as the ground beneath them, wore a multi-coloured saddle.

It was getting late, and at length, the man announced that it was time to set up camp. They would not be able to reach home by nightfall. At this, the girl protested.

"But Daddy," she whined, "we don't have _that_ much farther to go! Besides, it is so much more exciting to ride in the darkness."

"You heard what your father said, Letitia," said the woman, with a tired sigh. "We'll set up camp here. It's not safe to ride in the night."

"But surely," Letitia wanted to say, "surely it's equally unsafe to camp here, where any amount of highwaymen could rob us as we sleep!" But she didn't. She knew it would not be polite; she knew she must not play on her daddy's nerves. All the grown-ups looked tired; even Torrick had almost nodded off several times, Torrick who always said that jesters never sleep.

They spread their blankets under the birch trees and covered each other in fallen leaves for warmth. It was true that this was an adventure, perhaps even more so than galloping into the night, so Letitia smiled as she gazed up at the star-specked sky and tried to count the twinkling dots of white, smiled even though she knew she would never be able to count them all.

And yet, despite everything, she could not sleep. Her father had kissed her mother and herself good night, said to her mother (in a low, magical voice she wasn't meant to hear), "Do you know where we are, Esmerelda?" To which her mother replied,

"I know exactly, Jimmy." Mummy almost never called Daddy that. It was usually James, or Jim at most - "Your Majesty" when she was angry at him. But Jimmy...Jimmy somehow carried with it the most tenderness.

"Just down that slope is the Black Cave where the Elf of the past once found a witch..."

"...where she dreamt she had stayed the night with Nelly and Peter..."

"...where good King Redmond received the finest scolding of all time when his wife found him there, playing pranks..."

"...where he decided to be honest and upright for evermore..."

"...where he, the King, turned into a bore..."

"Honestly, Jimmy, he's not a bore."

"That's true. He's only a prig, not a bore; there is a difference."

"Oh Jimmy." And her mother laughed softly. Letitia wished Walden were here; he would be able to explain what their parents were talking about, tell her all those secrets of the past that she so delighted in. He had told her some things already, but not enough. She always wanted to know more. If Walden were here, they would sneak out into the forest once the others were sleeping, find the Black Cave their parents spoke of, delve into the mystery and adventure of the night. As it was, she knew she must not go alone. It was not that she was scared; rather, adventure wasn't half as exciting without someone to share it with. Especially if that someone were a much-adored older brother.

Eventually, out of boredom more than anything else, Letitia sunk into a light doze. Witches and caves and Uncle Redmond the Prig chased one another in her imagination. Everything became so intertwined that soon she saw a king with a cabbage for a head, a donkey drawing a pumpkin cart, a glass slipper breaking...and strange, hushed, male voices; shadows moving across her closed eyelids.

"So, you're here," said one, distinguishable over the blur of the others. The voice was gruff but soft, gnarled but refined.

"Yes," said another, somehow familiar - mellow, hushed, firm. "Please take care; we must not wake my wife."

"Do not worry about your wife," said the other, wheezingly. "Her Majesty will be _sure_ to rest in peace."

"Come," said the familiar voice, "let's get it over and done with."

"With pleasure." And there was a rustling of leaves. Autumn flicked through Letitia's mind - the times she and Beatrice had covered Benedick in leaves; the castles they had made with falling twigs; Walden looking in at them - playacting, laughter, and all the time, a shadow rising. The voices had died away, and the rustling continued, ever more distant.

Suddenly Letitia woke up with a start. What strange, demented dreams! Truth and fiction mixed in a surreal cocktail of nonsense...she turned over to face her parents. With disbelief she saw that her father wasn't there. She wanted to cry out, but stifled the impulse: something was not right. "_We must not wake my wife_..." The voices had been real, and her father's had been among them; she was determined to find out what was happening. Carefully she got up, and the leaves rustled softly as she made her way down the hill. She could see lights flickering at the bottom of it; that must be them. She would follow at a safe distance.

But when she got to the bottom of the hill, the lights had disappeared. They could not have gone into the forest - she would have seen them. They simply must have evaporated. Letitia could have almost cried in frustration. And then, as it were, a ray of hope shone up at her.

She was by some kind of strange boulder, and a light winked at her through its hole. She peered in and saw the light disappearing; hurriedly, she tiptoed to the other side of the boulder, where the rock sloped down towards the ground; beneath her were more holes, this time perfectly lit. She knelt down and peered through them. What she saw was incredible.

Beneath her was a subterranean world of stalactites and stalagmites that formed eerie faces in the firelight, faces of ghouls and ghosts. Men in black capes were stationed at regular intervals against the wall, and a man in a traveller's cloak followed another with fair, curly hair and whiskers that bore the mark of an expensive barber.

"You came," commented the fair man as he led the way. His voice was smooth, confident, and not a bit surprised. He was simply stating a fact.

"I didn't have much choice," said the other. Letitia recognised her father's voice. There were two burly-looked men behind him.

"That is true," agreed the fair one lightly. "Though of course, you did do us the courtesy of stopping here, in these woods; my men would never have dared to capture you in your castle." He laughed softly.

"That would have been most unpleasant," said Letitia's father. "Of course it is true that I prefer to keep these affairs away from my castle and my family, though on what pretext you have summoned me here today I cannot determine."

"At any rate, I hope it is not too great an inconvenience for you," said the other.

"Not at all," said the man in the traveller's cloak, sarcasm tinting his deep, musical voice. They had reached what looked like an entrance blocked by a large boulder. As the firelight passed over his face it became evident that the man in the traveller's cloak was blindfolded.

"Periwinkle Blue," said the fair man. As if by magic, the boulder rumbled to the side, revealing the door that had been chiselled out of the stone. They went through it alone, the two bodyguards staying behind in the antechamber with the rest of the men. Within a hair's breadth of crushing them, the boulder rolled back into place. Letitia darted over to the next crack in the ground.

"Allow me to take off that blindfold, James," the fair man was saying pleasantly. The chamber was vast and still; the only sound that penetrated it other than their voices was the rhythmic drip of the water off the stalactites. Letitia held her breath; her heart was beating catastrophically fast inside her, and so loudly that she was worried they might hear it. "Now...please take a seat," continued the fair man: "I would not like you to wish me rude."

"Perish the thought," said James; his face, now revealed, seemed all the more handsome for the lines that adorned it, for the world-weary appearance it had. In the firelight, thought Letitia, Daddy is transfigured: he looks like a brigand out of a fairytale, not a king. She was a little frightened by the transformation.

Each man presently sat down on an embroidered silk chair. These ornamental fallacies seemed very much at odds with the rugged underground landscape that surrounded them. Letitia wondered whether they had been brought there especially for that night. Her father smiled wryly. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked, studying the other man's face with his liquid brown eyes. Cyril Rose has aged, he thought. Once the gallant dandy, he now looks weathered and worn like a piece of driftwood. His skin is darker, too: that pale complexion of his has, perhaps, disappeared under some distant sun.

"You cannot guess?" asked Cyril.

"No."

"Well, well, well." Cyril smiled, showing his pearly white teeth. "All the more fun for me."

James could feel his patience wearing thin; all this never-ending courtesy was tiring, drawn out to the limit. He expended an ever-increasing amount of energy on refraining from punching that dastardly Cyril Rose in the face. They had never been friends; even at Interkingdom College it was rivals, always rivals. And then the matter of Esmerelda...James shuddered. It was too sickening to even think about.

"I've always felt a certain respect for you, James," began Cyril, bending down to pick up a wooden flask. " - Wine?"

"How do I know it's not poisoned?" asked James, inhaling deeply to steady his anger. He ought to be getting back to his family. They would be worried.

"You don't." Cyril's grin expanded. "That's a risk you'll have to take."

"I'll pass."

Cyril laughed. It was an irritating laugh: shallow, sour and out of tune. Letitia forgot about her heart: it seemed to be nestled somewhere in her stomach. Her skin prickled with goosebumps.

"Could we please get to the point?" said James, his exasperation getting the better of him.

"Now now, steady on old boy." Cyril poured himself a drink. "Cheers." He lifted his wooden cup to James, then drank down its contents slowly, thirstily, like a man who has been stranded in the desert for days. When he had finished he smacked his lips and gave a satisfied sigh. "That's better," he said. "Now we can talk."

"Please," said James shortly. (Letitia knew this tone of voice well. It meant her father was on the brink of an explosion. He never exploded, of course, but the threat was always there.)

"It's quite simple really," said Cyril, rapping his knuckles against the empty cup. "You give me money, and I don't tell Esmerelda that her dream really happened, that it was _you_ who got Mrs Whitehead to pour her a potion to make her believe that it didn't."

James was silent for a moment. "Why should you want to tell her that?"

What dream? thought Letitia. And then suddenly she remembered that, once, when she had only been little, her mother had told her a story of her past that ended up being no more than a dream. Perhaps this was what they were talking about?

Cyril laughed again. "Oh, don't play the innocent with me, old chap. It is true that you swore dear old _Madam_ Whitehead to secrecy; but when I returned from Mindia, she confessed it all to me on her deathbed. Always been a kind soul, has Mrs Whitehead. Always liked me."

"I can't think why."

"James, James, don't be like that! Come. You're rich - you have loads of money. You're a king for God's sake. Is it asking too much? You give me ten thousand a year for life, and I am silent as the grave."

"Don't be ridiculous!" growled James. "The money I have is not mine, but the people's. We are struggling as it is to feed everyone as it is!"

"Ah, always Mr Goody-Two Shoes. You impress me, James, you really do. But what about Letitia's dowry? Now, the poor don't get much out of that, do they?"

A vein pulsed in James' jaw. Please, Daddy, prayed Letitia, please don't lose it. It would do you no good - you are tantamount to his prisoner.

"Besides...you're a modern parent!" said Cyril. "Who cares if she chooses a prince or a pauper to marry? No one! Least of all you...or at least that's what you'd have us believe. But it's not really true, is it? If she chose a commoner like Waldstein did, it would be a different story, hmm?" Letitia remembered (why were painful memories always the most vivid?) the scene when Waldstein had told their parents that he wanted to marry a gypsy, that he was in love, that he wanted to do the honourable thing. Mummy had pleaded with Daddy, but to no avail. He would not allow it. Walden ran away the next day, and Mummy didn't speak with Daddy for months.

- "And of course," continued Cyril, "your wife - "

"Don't you _dare_ mention my wife!" exclaimed James, springing up and grabbing Cyril by the collar. "You're not worthy to speak her name." And then he stepped away, like an addict stepping away from his temptation. _That's it, Daddy_, thought Letitia, _just keep on stepping away_...

"Fine, be like that," said Cyril, no longer smiling. His face was serious; his tone was cold. "But don't forget, I'm her brother, by blood if not by circumstance. I feel it is my duty to tell her the truth."

This man...Mummy's brother? Brother of Queen Esmerelda? Ridiculous! Not to mention impossible...

"All the money in the world could not compensate me for my pangs of conscience," he continued. "I was close to Lidia, you know." (Who was Lidia?) "Her death touched me more than anyone. Well, after Mother, of course. But then she didn't last long either...died in the revolution. Heart attack. It was all too much for her. Was that why, James?" His blue eyes were cold, hard marble. "Was that why you made Esmerelda forget? Why you forced Mother Whitehead to brew a potion that would make her dream an alternate version of events, one where she woke up the morning after her 16th birthday in a world that was unscathed, unblemished an unreal? Why she only awoke from her dream state a year later, just in time for you to get her pregnant, or so you hoped? She thought she had been dreaming of the Masked Men, of Peter and Lidia, of becoming a 'beast' of sorts - of Lidia's death, of her mother's death - when the real dream began only afterwards. It was all too traumatic for her, am I correct? That's why...that's why you did it."

James was staring at the ground with his back turned to Cyril. The water from the stalactites kept on dripping. Drip, drip, drip. Plink plonk plunk. It played out a miniature symphony before he answered.

"I couldn't..." he began, in a voice brimming over with emotion - "I couldn't let her suffer. To finally find her mother, her real mother, only to watch her die..." Letitia could have cried, seeing her father like this.

"And _what_ a family she came from, isn't that right?" Cyril Rose grinned. "Because Prince James - for all the pep talks about the equality of the classes - was always very much the snob. Esmerelda's true family - a sister who was a thief, an impostor, perhaps even a murderer; a brother who gambled - I still do, actually, filthy habit - and kept the wrong sort of company; another brother who was a liar, and an _actor_ - scandalous; and a mere doctor for a father? Better to hush it up, eh James? That's what you thought then and that's what you're thinking now. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. Better to leave it all, as a dream, as something out of her imagination." Letitia couldn't believe what she heard - didn't want to believe it. And after all, it was nonsense. Her mother was the daughter of the late King of Starcastle, not some poor doctor. At least...that's what she had always been told.

"I think you've read into me enough," said James, biting the inside of his cheek, "now how about you? Time has not treated you well; I can see that...hence the demands for money. You've gambled away all your income, got yourself into debt, and are looking for an easy way out, yes? You say you've been to Mindia - you've got back, relatively recently, and want to start again. Make a name for yourself. Perhaps even court the now widowed Queen Tara - "

"Tara? Please! I prefer the young flesh!"

James could not help wrinkling his nose at this remark. "But there's one place you've read me wrong. You think I'm going to give in, and pay you the money. Well you're wrong. Not in a million years." This is dangerous, Daddy, don't do it! Please, please just give him the money! He could...he could...

...but she couldn't even let herself think of the horrible things he could do.

"Well that's just where you've read _me_ wrong, old boy," said Cyril with a thin smile. "Because you're not leaving here until you've signed a declaration saying you'll pay." Yes - just pay, Daddy - listen to him - listen to _me_...

"Then I shall simply have to wait until the Royal Guard comes to arrest you," said James breezily.

Cyril was not fooled. "Oh really? The last time I heard, you had dissipated the Royal Guard so that you had more money to feed the poor...?" He gave a nasty chuckle. "Like it or not, mister, you're just going to have to pay." He paced back and forth, his manner growing more overbearing by the second. "There are other stories I could tell Esmerelda. That the same potion was used on her to make her believe that Waldstein and Letitia were her children, even though in truth she can't reproduce?"

"Don't you dare - "

Mummy not her mother? Letitia began to feel faint and cold...

"Because, when all is said and done," continued Cyril Rose, "Esmerelda's a little bit mad - and it was an easy scam to carry out on the rest of the kingdom. I wonder who their mother really is. Eh? Am I getting too close to the truth for comfort, _Jimmy_?"

It was at this point that James dived after Cyril, hitting him precisely and easily over the head. In an instant Rose was lying unconscious on the cave floor, and with the finger dexterity of a musician James began unlacing his enemy's boots. Within five minutes, a hooded figure in a traveller's cloak was tied to a chair facing the wall, and a man who looked exactly like Cyril Rose in the dim light emerged from the chamber and instructed the men to look after the prisoner inside. He then ordered his best horse to be saddled, and rode off into the chill, moonless night. It would not be until much later that the henchmen realised their mistake.

In the meanwhile, Letitia stood frozen by the crevice, peering down at the helpless and unconscious Cyril Rose. She was too scared even to move. Wild, raging thoughts tumbled through her mind, leering and jeering at her naivete. Mummy...not my mother? How could that even be possible? She loved her with all her heart and soul. And Daddy, with some other woman...all lies, all lies! She was determined not to believe any of it, not to let that man's words poison her heart...and yet...

Her stream of thought was interrupted by a husky voice she didn't recognise. "Well, well, well," it taunted, "if it isn't Little Red Riding Hood."

Letitia whirled around clumsily, falling prostrate at the feet of the voice's owner as she did so. He loomed over her like Death, and he wore a hooded cloak that shaded his face.

What horrors lay beneath?


	6. The Godmother

**A/N: About sequels**

**"Writing something of this sort presents many pitfalls for the author. His new readers do not want to be constantly irritated by references to a previous book they have not read, and the ones who have read the previous book do not want to be irritated by constant repetition of events with which they are familiar."**

**- Gerald Durrell, Foreword to _Birds, Beasts and Relatives_ (sequel to _My Family and Other Animals)_**

**Unfortunately, I seem to be a bit of a failure as a sequel writer (leaning too much towards the Durrell's first diagnosis). As a result, I am going to draw up some sort of chart/bullet-point explanation of what happened in _The Silver Butterfly_ and what relation it has to this. There is also going to be a family tree. I'm excited about the family tree...I love that kind of genealogy stuff. When I've finished it'll be up on my profile...promise it'll be there by the time I post the next chapter. **

**- _Update: now finished the family tree, and you can vote for what you want in the next chapter (see profile)_**

**In the meantime, we're back to Beatrice and (to a lesser extent) Benedick; as this is completely "next-generation" there should hopefully be no confusion. This is (I hope) quite a lighthearted chapter, with a bit of comic relief to diffuse the "dream-or-no-dream-what-on-earth-is-going-on" tension.**

**Hope you like it. Thanks for your great reviews of the last chapter (I'm glad you're all honest about what you think) and well...**

**(this goes to the "invisible" readers as well)**

_**Please**_** review!**

**Reviews always make my day.  
**

**Tata for now. **

* * *

**Chapter Six: The Godmother**

_The wheel of Fortune turns..._

- Carmina Burana

_Earlier that evening..._

An hour had passed, and Beatrice was exactly where she had started. She had tried all sorts of things, but to no avail. Rose, of course, looked more confident, but in the long run she sensed that it was going no better for him than it was for her. Still they kept their silence. It probably would have lasted for the rest of their lives, had not Beatrice reached behind her for a spare part and touched something rough and furry instead.

Brandon sighed. None of his experiments had worked. Sixty long minutes, and he hadn't made any progress at all. He was just about to throw his tools down in exasperation when something very odd happened. Benedick uttered a shrill scream. Brandon looked up quickly - there was a large rat scampering away at such speed that he was surprised it hadn't been flagged down by the rat police for speeding. Benedick, on the other hand, had stood up and was wearing the most miserable expression imaginable. So miserable, in fact, that he looked almost feminine. And he sounded it, too, thought Brandon, grinning.

"What happened?" he asked, momentarily forgetting their enmity.

"A r-rat," said Benedick in a quavering voice. "A rat!"

"What, you're scared of rats?" taunted Brandon. How silly could this boy be? Everyone knew that rats were, in the scope of things, harmless.

"No, of course not," said Benedick defensively.

"Like a little girl!" Brandon laughed, but stopped very suddenly. _I wonder..._Looking at Benedick again, he realised that the boy's features were softer than he had thought they were - even pretty. Prince Benedick of Starcastle, he thought, entering it into his mental database of the local royalty; surely that name belongs in a pair? Got it! Prince Benedick and Princess Beatrice. But could it be possible...? Or was it just the work of the dim light and his imagination?

"Look," he said, "I'm sorry I insulted your father. I guess I was trying to show off in front of the class; but the fact is, you know more about history than I do, and well, I was jealous."

Benedick looked up, surprise and distrust marbling in that overly effeminate face. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do."

Brandon found himself looking away, at the floor, anywhere. It couldn't be true, it absolutely couldn't! Trying to fix an unfixable machine in light that was so dim it was almost black...it got to your head. It made you see things. That was it, he was hallucinating. Better to look at the floor. Check for any more rats.

"I'm sorry about what I said about your father, too," said Benedick slowly.

Brandon had to glance up at the boy, out of politeness, out of recognition he had said something. Still that girlish face. Brandon quickly looked back at the cobbled floor. It was grimy, covered in old straw.

"Though," added Benedick, in a harder voice, "I can't say it wasn't true."

How could I have thought this was Princess Beatrice? Brandon cursed himself for even imagining such a thing. This was a young man with a childish face - an enemy, a devil, who spoke ill of his father.

"Good," retorted Brandon, "because I can't pretend that what I said about your father wasn't true either!"

"Fine!" said Benedick. There was a silence.

Then again, thought Brandon, maybe he _was_ right and it _was_ a girl in disguise. What a quandary! It was against all the rules of etiquette to behave rudely towards a woman. Though, of course, she didn't _look_ like a woman...she was wearing a boy's uniform...Oh, nonsense, Brandon, what utter nonsense! And yet he had to concede that Benedick was good-looking beyond anything he had seen before in a boy. It was a terrible thing: Benedick was even better-looking than he was. Thank heavens that neither of us will go to the ball tonight...it would be shameful if this time I wasn't the most popular dance partner with the girls.

And then, of course, Brandon remembered his appointment, his promise, and realised his mistake. With a sigh, trying (as best he could) to avoid looking at his enemy, he said -

"Look, I know we have our differences..." - in what he hoped was a haughty voice - "but unless we work together on this machine, neither of us will go to the ball tonight."

Beatrice was surprised by this, and her first impulse was to refuse. But the promise of going to the ball...of seeing Daniel again...of perhaps confiding in him her secret (although she _had _promised not to tell anyone, she felt justified in doing so on this occasion)...of him gallantly taking her into the garden, where they would dance to distant music, alone, gazing into the starlit sky reflected in each other's eyes...

...the promise of all of this was too much to resist.

"Alright," she said, in a cold contralto, "let's work together."

* * *

Within fifteen minutes they had pieced enough together to realise the machine was not a torture instrument but an ancient sewing machine, and within forty-five minutes they had successfully got it working. In their teamwork they almost forgot they were enemies, and indeed they nearly hugged each other for joy when the machine showed its first signs of life (not to fear - they came to reason just in time to awkwardly step away from each other). But when Rose triumphantly ran up the stairs to press the green button, and Pebmarsh came down to examine their work, Beatrice realised she had been conned.

"Excellent work," said Pebmarsh: "I know this was all your doing, Rose; you excel in mechanics, so Mr Bolsworthy tells me."

"Actually, sir - "

"I did not expect this result, even of you - as I said, our finest minds have battled it out with this machine..."

"Actually, sir, we worked on it together. If it hadn't been for our teamwork, it would have remained broken."

"Oh, Rose, that is very noble of you," said Pebmarsh, with his ratty smile, "but I _know_ a youngster like Benedick could hardly know anything about mechanics!" And he laughed loudly and scornfully. His laugh echoed throughout the dungeon, making it seem that the grimy walls were laughing, too...

Beatrice looked from Pebmarsh to Brandon, from Brandon to Pebmarsh. At first she fancied that Brandon looked upset; and then, a moment later, the expression had changed, and he was grinning. It was the most evil grin she had ever seen. Now she knew what the evil wizards in fairytales were supposed to look like. She was too furious to even say anything in her own defence.

"As a result," said Pebmarsh, "you, Rose, shall go to the ball; as for Prince Benedick, he shall stay in the dungeon until morning."

"_Au revoir_," said Rose. And he and Pebmarsh ascended the stairs, talking to one another about some article in the Interkingdom Herald, not even so much as looking back.

It was there and then that Beatrice decided that she would despise Brandon Rose forever.

* * *

Benedick had been alone in the "sick room" all day, and he was...well, he was sick of it, that's what he was! He was sick of all of it. Sick of being "a girl", sick of being an invalid, sick of being stuck inside when the world was so beautiful outside. It was around nightfall that he dragged himself over to the window (against nurse's orders) to look out on all he was denied (alright, he wanted to see if he could spot Alice going back to her room after class). He didn't see anything of real interest, just some giggling girls (he was _through_ with giggling!) and a gardener loping about the grounds.

- Wait a minute. That's Waldstein! Poisonous little...

He felt like calling out, but suppressed the urge; he didn't want to get Beatrice into trouble (though God knows he wouldn't mind doing the same for Waldstein). Benedick had not had the best of days. Alice had visited him, yes - but not enough (what did she _do_ in her breaks?) - and he had never gotten to telling her his secret. Those twin princesses had ruined it all. "Did you hear?" they had puffed and panted - "_Brandon Rose_ is coming to the ball!"

"Yes, we heard it with our own eyes!"

"- Ears, darling -"

"Oh, but isn't it exciting?"

Brandon Rose indeed. He hadn't listened to the conversation that followed (except for the heart-rending, much-too-interested comments Alice made) but all the same he gathered snippets of "He transferred to the I.C. last year from some college in _Mindia_, can you _imagine_?", "His father is so brave!" and "He is _so_ handsome" (this last phrase repeated often). By the time the two princesses left, he had an utter headache (it was the wig, he insisted to himself, but in his heart of hearts he knew otherwise) and wished never to hear the name Brandon Rose again.

There is a certain pleasure to be had in putting hot coals on your wounds, in pricking your heart with nails, thought Benedick vindictively. He played Alice's admiring expression over and over in his mind. Brandon Rose indeed. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Just then (before he could do his wounds or heart any more damage) a familiar face appeared in the window frame.

"G'day, Princess," said Walden, grinning. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Don't talk to me!" exclaimed Benedick in a hurt voice. "Thanks to you, I've broken my leg, been cloistered within four walls all day, and fallen into the gravest unrequited passion."

"And that, of course, is _all_ my fault," said Waldstein.

"Please go away," said Benedick with a tired air, "I'm not in a good mood. Don't provoke me - I might cause you to fall off your drainpipe again."

"That can be easily avoided," said Waldstein, climbing in through the window. He was wearing a mammoth smile; Benedick couldn't help wondering why he looked so pleased with himself.

"You'll get caught," said Benedick, with no pretence of empathy.

"No, I won't," said Waldstein, "Everyone's too busy preparing for the ball."

This, Benedick imagined, was quite true. He scowled.

"But do not despair!" said Waldstein, his grin (if this was possible) becoming even more giant. "Walden's there, in Benedick's lair!"

"Are you _trying_ to annoy me?"

"Maybe a little," confessed Waldstein. "But you'll thank me for it in the end. Look what I've brought you." And he produced a small, jewelled phial from his pocket.

"What is it," said Benedick doubtfully - "A love potion?"

"No, no, no," laughed Waldstein, "you'll have to go to Donizetti for that one. No. If you will, this is a "Fix-It" potion. Drink it and your foot, ankle, whatever it is, will heal."

"And you just happen to carry this miraculous potion around with you all the time?"

"Yes," said Waldstein, becoming serious, "you never know when you might need it."

"I can't deprive you," said Benedick, with true earnestness.

"Nonsense," said Waldstein, "I'll get a refill tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"Positive," said Waldstein. "You drink up, and you can go to the ball!"

"But I don't _want_ to," moaned Benedick.

"Your choice," said Waldstein. "If you really want Brandon Rose to sweep Alice off her feet, then..."

"How do you know about Alice?"

"A gardener sees many things." Waldstein grinned.

"Besides," said Benedick, half to himself, "even if I do go, Alice will never look at me because of this ridiculous get-up."

"What do you think," said Waldstein, "that I brought _this_ for?" He toddled over to the balcony and produced a full dress suit which had evidently been hanging off one of the vines.

"I don't believe it," said Benedick. "Just one problem, though - won't it be a bit confusing for everyone if there are _two_ Benedicks?"

"Never fear," said Waldstein in an ominous voice, "I got you _this_ as well." He produced a white Mozart-style wig and a silver mask. "No one will recognise you unless you want them to. But, as I said," he repeated, "if you don't want to, you don't have to. It's your choice: drink up, dress up, go and seduce your lovely Alice - or stay here in that hot dress and moan yourself to death. It's your own decision."

Benedick looked at Waldstein as though he had made a very bad joke.

"Are you crazy?" he spluttered. "Of course I'm going!"

"Very good," said Waldstein, but as Benedick moved to take the phial he held his hand high in the air beyond his cousin's reach: "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"You mustn't let your love for Alice blind you to what's actually going on. Keep your eyes peeled. I need a spy."

"What about Beatrice?"

Walden shrugged his shoulders. "She's a girl. Anyway, who knows what she's up to?"

* * *

The dungeon was filled with the sound of sobs. Rats poked out their noses from behind the stones to see what all the commotion was about; bats nestled in the crags in the ceiling in silent solidarity. Kneeling on the dank, straw-laden floor was a young human being, weeping. Even the spiders looked sorry for her.

Beatrice sighed bitterly, and then hiccoughed up some more tears. Some scrape she had got herself into this time! She couldn't even _begin_ to imagine how she would go about telling Benedick that she had ruined his reputation. But the injustice, oh the injustice was what hurt her the most. That scoundrel, Brandon Rose! It had, in fact, been she who had had all the brilliant ideas when they were fixing the machine. He had helped, of course - she admitted it - she would never have been able to do it without him - but to stalk off like that, taking all the credit! And all because of him, Daniel would find some other girl to stare at...

Her sobs began to quieten. After all, there was nothing she could do. It was not like life was a fairytale, where a fairy godmother would come and magic her into a beautiful dress and take her to the ball in a pumpkin carriage...life wasn't like that. The ball would be starting, just about now. She wondered what Benedick was doing. She smiled slightly. How difficult it had been to convince him to wear her dress! "But Walden, this is ridiculous!" he had squealed as they stitched up his corset. It took all of Walden's manly strength to stop the boy running away. But after all, when all was said and done, Ben actually looked quite pretty dressed up as a girl. She grinned. Almost prettier than her.

Her smile faded almost before it had appeared; she could have sworn she heard a sound! Something had rustled behind her. She turned to look, but saw nothing. Just the bats on the ceiling. Well, they were nothing new. She had nothing against bats; in fact she found them rather cute (cuter than rats, at any rate). She had imagined the sound, she decided. Just like she had imagined the shadow earlier.

And then she saw it, on the wall. It was the same shadow - strangely angular, jagged, darker than the other shadows. Beatrice froze. It was moving. Moving towards her. She screwed her eyes shut.

Another rustle, and another, always nearer, until she was sure it was besides her and she just had to look -

"Well well, my pretty!"

Beatrice opened her eyes, half-expecting to die of horror. But there was no ghost, no goblin, in fact no supernatural being whatsoever. There was merely a lady in a large, old-fashioned dress and a white wig. The only strange thing about her was the fact that her whole face was covered by a mask.

"W-who are you?" stammered Beatrice.

"I am your godmother, dearest," said the lady.

"I'm s-sorry?"

"I am your godmother," repeated the lady, somewhat impatiently.

"I don't believe in fairy tales," said Beatrice. Perhaps her tone was rude, but then, it _was_ a shock to see someone appear seemingly out of nowhere.

"Nobody said I was a fairy," remonstrated the lady. "I am simply The Godmother. You may refer to me as Godmother. It saves time and is more grammatical." Her voice was strange; deep and throttled, somehow, as if she was trying to disguise it. Or perhaps she simply had a bad cold.

"How come nobody ever told me I had a godmother?" asked Beatrice.

"Because nobody ever knew," said the Godmother matter-of-factly.

"How come nobody ever knew?"

"Good heavens, girl, you _are_ a pain!" The Godmother sniffed. "Nobody ever knew, full stop. That's it. Basta. Finito!" And she twirled a lacy handkerchief in the air.

"I still don't understand why you followed me here," said Beatrice.

"Why, to prepare you for the Ball, of course!" came the reply, as if there were nothing more obvious in the world.

"A bit late, aren't you?" Beatrice couldn't help herself. "The ball started a good half an hour ago."

"My, my, what ingratitude! I have a good mind to let you rot here, in this rotty dungeon!"

"I don't think rotty is a word," began Beatrice.

"Oh, hush." Beatrice couldn't see The Godmother's face, but she could imagine the expression it was wearing. Judging by her tone of voice, The Godmother looked just as Father did when he was in a touchy mood. "_Do_ you want to go to this ball, or _don't_ you?"

"Of course I don't," lied Beatrice (much to her own chagrin).

"Of course you _do_," corrected The Godmother. "And no, I can't read your thoughts; I merely watched you crying for the last hour or so. A very sorry sight. Girls should never be denied going to a ball. It isn't healthy for them."

"Well," retorted Beatrice, "I can hardly go like _this_, can I?" She gestured at her uniform, dirty from kneeling on the ground for so long.

"Nobody expects you to go like _that_," said The Godmother, imitating her. "No; we shall have to do some work on you before you are presentable again. Sit," she said, pointing to a chair that hadn't been there before.

"Where did this come from?" Beatrice wondered aloud. But she sat down obediently. Her body ached from having been in a bad posture for so long.

"Now," said The Godmother, with evident glee, "what colour would you prefer, silver, or gold?" She was holding out lengths of two different materials.

"I don't understand," said Beatrice.

"For your dress! _Mon dieu_, she's thick!" exclaimed The Godmother, slapping herself on the (masked) forehead.

"But - "

"We're going to sew you a dress," said The Godmother with growing impatience - "what do you think that machine you fixed is for? Now, what colour do you want?"

"You'd _never_ get a dress sewn in time!" exclaimed Beatrice, staring at her new godmother as if she was crazy. "It's impossible! It'll take you a week!"

"A week? _C'est impossible_! Not with a _magic_ sewing machine."

"Magic doesn't exist," said Beatrice skeptically.

"Not so fast, my child," said The Godmother - Beatrice could almost _hear_ her eyes twinkling - "not so fast. - Hold this, would you." And unloading the golden fabric onto Beatrice, she took the silver fabric over to the sewing machine. There was a horrendous bang, and a puff of smoke, and the next thing Beatrice knew The Godmother was holding the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.

"Now, young lady," said The Godmother with evident satisfaction, "I'd like to see you deny that magic exists."

Beatrice was suitably shaken, but she said: "Of course magic doesn't exist. This is just like one of my father's magic tricks. _They_ aren't real...they're just clever tomfoolery."

"Clever tomfoolery, eh?" said The Godmother. "We'll see about that."

There was another puff of smoke and an ornamental screen stood in front of Beatrice. "Change," commanded The Godmother, throwing her the dress.

Beatrice did as told, even though she had a mind not to. This whole "Godmother" business was exceedingly shady; but all the same, she couldn't help feeling she had met the woman somewhere before. Perhaps it was just deja vu, but then, who knew? Maybe she really was her godmother, maybe she really had met her once upon a time when she was little.

"Are you ready yet?" said The Godmother's voice from the other side of the screen. "We don't have forever, you know."

"Unfortunately I'm not ready," returned Beatrice. "Maybe you could just magick the dress onto me...or is that too difficult for you?"

"Now now, girl," reprimanded The Godmother, "I wouldn't like to see your mother's reaction to the way you've been behaving just now."

Thinking of her mother, Beatrice immediately felt ashamed. _Always be extra courteous to older people. Be obedient; smile, listen to what others have to say. Don't put yourself first all the time._ What would her mother think of her if she knew she had switched places with Benedick, if she knew what a shameful display she had put on in class that afternoon? Sighing, Beatrice resolved to be a saint from then on.

"I'm sorry, Godmother," she said contritely.

"That's better. Now...hurry up."

A few minutes later, Beatrice emerged from behind the screen. There was now a mirror by the wall; she stopped to admire herself.

"_Don't_ get up on your high horse now, missy," said The Godmother, "if you think you look pretty now, just wait until _I've_ finished with you!" And she set about cleaning the dirt off Beatrice's face and hands. Minutes later, Beatrice was sitting down again, having her fingernails and toenails manicured. She didn't usually go in for this sort of thing, but it was strangely pleasing to be thus pampered.

"Tell me," said Beatrice suspiciously, "you're not by any chance an advertisement for a beauty parlour or something, are you?"

The lady "nichered" a laugh. "No such luck, sweetie!"

Now, Beatrice resented being called "sweetie", but she was grateful for the attention she was getting, so she bit her tongue.

"Next: make up!" said The Godmother with relish. Before Beatrice could protest (even the idea of makeup was odious to her), she felt a soft brush going over her face with some sort of powder. Within the blink of an eye, her mouth was being pencilled in, drawn over with lipstick, dabbed with a tissue, drawn over with lipstick again, dabbed with a tissue again - until the effect pleased The Godmother and she progressed onto the next stage. With a thin brush she went over Beatrice's eyebrows, then (instructing Beatrice to close her eyes) smoothed some sparkly silver stuff over her eyelids using a cotton pad. When all of this was finished, she put a massive silver wig over Beatrice's cropped hair, drawing out a battalion of bobby pins to secure it. Then, the final touch was added: an ivory peacock pendant, falling gracefully in place in the V of her neck. When Beatrice looked into the mirror again, she couldn't recognise herself. She was, in fact, beautiful.

"My goodness!" exclaimed The Godmother. "I almost forgot." And, putting a hand behind her back, there was another explosion, and she drew out a pair of shiny, semi-transparent shoes.

"Glass?" asked Beatrice softly.

The Godmother shook her head. "Crystal. Why be Cinderella when you can go a step further?"

Beatrice slid them on, and there was no mistake: they fitted perfectly.

"Godmother, I would like to..."

"...thank me?"

"Yes."

"No problem." And, behind her mask, Beatrice fancied The Godmother smiled. "Just remember: if you don't leave the ball before the clock strikes twelve, you'll turn back into a likeness of your brother and it'll _all_ have been for nothing."

"Don't worry," said Beatrice, "I'll leave long before midnight. I'm an early sleeper."

"Good girl," said The Godmother. "I'm sure you're mother'd be proud."

"There's just one problem," said Beatrice.

"What's that?" asked The Godmother.

"How are we going to get out of here?"

Again Beatrice got the feeling that The Godmother's eyes were sparkling. "You can leave _that_ to me."


	7. The Initiation Ball

**A/N: It's a bit long, but it's my favourite chapter so far. I hope you like it too! As there was a tie as to what it should include - two votes for potato man's fate, two for the Ball - I tried to cover both. You can still vote on the favourite character poll though (and I should tell you that I added about 2k words to the first chapter - including Beatrice and the highwaymen). **

**Thank you so much for your wonderful support, reviewers...I love you all! And to those of you who aren't the reviewing kind...thanks for reading all the same.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: The Initiation Ball**

_Carpe diem._

_- _Latin proverb

Like Death, the hooded figured loomed over Letitia - she shaded her eyes with her hand, preparing herself for the worst.

"You must be young Princess Letitia," said the man, in a voice that was as dark as night.

"Don't hurt me," she panted, "please - I've done nothing wrong!"

The man chuckled. "Oh, hussy," he said, "don't be frightened." He advanced towards her, step by step, and Letitia thought she was going to pass out... "I'd never think to hurt you," he continued, in deep, earthy tones. "Get up - here, I'll lend you a hand...I bring you a missive from your brother."

Letitia couldn't believe her ears. "Waldstein?" she exclaimed, as he helped her to her feet. "But - no one knows where he is!"

"_I_ know," said the man in a low voice, "but it's all as secret as secret can be. Now open the letter." He handed her a scroll of parchment; even in the moonlight she could see that the seal was, indeed, her brother's: a lone stag, imprinted in wine red. Without hesitation, she broke the seal, tore it open -

_Dearest Lettie,_

_I've sent a man to fetch you; I need you by my side now. I cannot tell you what I am doing, it's all dreadfully hush-hush; but you can help me, and that's the main thing. Don't worry about Mother and Father - I've sent them a message explaining that you're safe. They will only realise once you are gone, though; so I urge you, hurry, ride like the wind, so that you may reach me in time._

_Do not be afraid - Mr Boffin is a good man. He once rescued me from death...recently I had the chance to return the favour. You must trust him as you would trust me. And now go - go!_

_W._

As soon as she had finished reading, the man lit a match and, taking the parchment from her, set it on fire. Carefully, he let it burn until there was nothing left but cinders.

"I don't understand," breathed Letitia.

"You don't have to," said the man. The flames cast a warm yellow light over his face; he reminded her strangely of a man she had once seen in a painting...which one? Oh yes..._The Potato Eaters_...

"But how are we to flee...if we have no horse?"

"But we do," said Mr Boffin, a smile rising on his thick lips. "We do." And out of the shadows, a black mare sauntered forth...

"_Lightning_!" exclaimed Letitia. It was her brother's much-loved horse, on whom he had won the Grand Interkingdom College Race in his final year at school.

"Do you believe me now," said Mr Boffin, "that this is urgent business?"

"How could I not?" said Letitia, mounting the horse. "...So long as my parents are not worried."

"Do not you worry," said Boffin, "they'll know it was important."

"Well?" said Letitia, once Boffin was sitting in front of her, holding the reins. "Where are we going?"

He gave another thick smile and spurred the horse on: suddenly, the leaves were skidding chaotically through the air, and Lightning was flying like the wind...

"Interkingdom College," shouted Boffin over the noise of Lightning's galloping hooves. "You have a ball to attend!"

* * *

The Great Common Hall of Interkingdom College was lit up by a thousand candles that sparkled in the chandeliers, shone from crevices in the ceiling, and spilled light over the kilometre-long banquet tables. A cornucopia of fruit, cheese, chocolate, and sweets of every description covered every inch of these tables; by the candlelight the feast looked almost magical. On the grand stage, a string orchestra performed the most beautiful waltzes, polkas, and sarabandes; the merry company danced and drank copious amounts of the delicious fresh grape juice that was provided for them.

Benedick breathed out slowly to calm his nerves. Alice was standing opposite him, chatting with some girls he didn't recognise, apparently unaware of his existence. How could he work up the confidence to ask her to dance? He felt utterly miserable, a fool, a tiny fool the size of a matchstick... Alice laughed. He wondered what they were talking about. A bitter voice inside his head told him it knew exactly. He wouldn't listen; but just then, the voice was proved right. A tall young man, older than he - a senior, he supposed - bowed in greeting to the young ladies. Alice's smile expanded; Benedick thought he would die.

"Brandon!" said Alice. "I'm so glad to see you!"

(They know each other? thought Benedick with an inward groan. Well that just about caps it all...)

"I'm glad to see you too, Ally," said Brandon. (What familiarity! What cursed familiarity! As though they had known each other all their lives!...the slimy brat, he was not even half worthy of her...but Benedick had to concede that he _was_ handsome. That smooth face, that thick honey-coloured hair, that smile, _au charmant_...Benedick shuddered, but at the same time felt his own red hair prickle underneath the wig. If only he had inherited Mother's brown hair, instead of Father's rusty colour! Life would have been so much easier...)

"Shall we dance?" asked Alice (oh so familiar! He wished she would ask _him_ to dance...).

"By and by." (The imbecile! If I were in your place, I would...) "I just want to look at you first." (My _God_! How those words rip at my heart...)

And they separated from Alice's friends, and began to talk in low voices alone. Benedick strained to hear what they were saying, but it was no use. He was just about to explode like a pent-up volcano when...

"_Pardone moi, monsieur,_ but do I know you?"

"No, no, I think not..." began Benedick, and then turning around, exclaimed in surprise: "Lettie!"

"I wasn't sure if it was you," she said, smiling. She was dressed in a red silk ballgown threaded with gold; though something of the child remained about her, her physique was already that of a young woman. "That's a very nice costume you have there, Ben."

"But Lettie...look at you...I don't understand...what are you doing here?" spluttered Benedick.

"Walden sent for me."

"Walden..." Benedick could not even begin to understand. But, knowing his older cousin's tricks, he could at least imagine... "But Lettie, you'll get in trouble!"

"I doubt it," said Letitia. "There are so many people here, they'll hardly notice an extra. Besides...I have a very nice man with me to protect me."

"Then where is he?"

"He's watching from the outside. He looks rather like one of Van Gogh's potato eaters." She laughed; but Benedick did not join her. He was gazing longingly at a blonde girl in a golden dress.

"Benedick..." she whispered. "Are you alright?"

He didn't answer.

"_Benedick_!"

Startled, he blinked at her like a peevish owl. "What?"

"_Are you alright_?"

"Well..." When could Benedick resist a chance to be melodramatic? "Not exactly. My _heart_, Letitia. It's suffered a fatal wound."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," said Letitia gravely. "But," she added, peering over at the golden beauty, "I think I know something that might fix it."

"What?"

"Dance with me."

"With _you_? But - "

"No, no, Benedick," she hissed impatiently, "you don't understand. Nobody knows we're practically brother and sister. We could be lovers."

"Preposte - "

"Ask me to dance," she interrupted, "and make sure she sees you. Hurry, or they'll escape."

Much against his will, Benedick said in a loud, dignified voice: "Letitia the Ethereal Starchild, would you give me the great honour of dancing with you?"

"Of course, Prince," she said, curtseying deeply in recognition. "With pleasure." It had worked: heads had turned - even Brandon's, even - especially - Alice's. And with a gallant smile that belied his inner turmoil, Benedick led the Ethereal Starchild to the dance floor.

"Benedick," whispered Letitia once they had arrived.

"What is it?"

"There's this one teeny tiny little problem."

"Oh? What's that?"

"I can't dance."

"You _what_?"

"That is to say, I _can_ dance, but only the man's part...Beatrice always makes me do it with her for practice when we're together..."

"_Bother_ Beatrice," exclaimed Benedick, "people are staring at us!"

"Well, standing in the middle of the dance floor does have this tendency to attract attention."

"Look..." said Benedick, taking her by the hand, "I'll lead, you follow. It's fairly simple."

"Okay."

And so they danced; at first, Letitia was a little awkward, but after ten minutes she was moving as gracefully as if she had been dancing all her life.

"I thought you couldn't dance?" Benedick smiled.

"Well, I _did_ do ballet for ten years...but that's very different to ballroom dancing," she said earnestly.

"Naturally, it follows that you have a talent for dancing."

"You flatter me, _monsieur._"

"'Monsieur', Lettie, what - "

The delicate ballerina nudged him in the ribs. Alice and Brandon were circling them, holding on to each other like a pair of lovebirds.

"Oh...right," he said in an undertone. He cleared his throat. "My dearest Letitia," he declaimed, "how lithe and supple you are, like a birch tree in the spring..."

"Oh my Prince, how gentle you are - everything that a woman could possibly hope for."

"It gratifies me that you find me gentle."

"It gratifies me that you find me lithe."

"If only we could dance thus forever, into eternity..."

"Oh, that would be the greatest honour imaginable..."

"To never stop, to be always in each other's arms..."

"To never cease gazing into your wonderful eyes..."

"Would you allow me to snip a lock of your beauteous raven hair after this?"

"Although I would not quite call it raven, I should not be loath to part with any amount of my hair, for your princely sake."

"How about all of it?"

Another nudge in the ribs; Letitia laughed coquettishly. "Not only gentle, but witty also..._what_ a combination of virtues in a single gentleman!"

It was then that the trumpets blared, and the Announcer announced in a voice that, due to some ingenious means of amplification, echoed throughout the hall: "Princess Beatrice!" Through the tall, gold-encrusted main doors, a young woman in silver emerged. Benedick almost tripped over his own feet. Since when had she changed back into herself? He was going to be in big trouble with Nurse in the morning...he slid his mask back on, as if somehow it might protect him.

Presently he realised that he was not the only one who had stopped short. The whole room was silent: the musicians had stopped playing, and the dancers had stopped dancing; even the waiters had frozen like statues. It was as if they were all being held under a spell. Benedick glanced at Brandon Rose, and he felt gratified to see the astonishment on his face. Yes...that's my sister. She can have that effect on people.

A dark, handsome boy ran to greet the new arrival. Benedick recognised Daniel de Mercedes: the senior eagerly led Beatrice to the dance floor, and then looking around him as if everyone was crazy, he said: "Why aren't they playing?"

And so the musicians resumed their music-making, the dancers resumed their dancing and the waiters resumed their...waiting. But Benedick saw (with satisfaction) the look on Brandon's face - the way his eyes followed Beatrice around the dance floor, the way he glanced at the ground every time Beatrice circled near him. Alice was losing her Mr Rose. Perhaps she had already lost him. And now, she would be ready for the gentle touch of Prince Benedick the Magnificent. As for Rose, his heart would be broken. And didn't he deserve it!

* * *

The musicians had resumed playing: a fast dance in triple metre with a mood of passion, of sweet expectation.

"I believe this is the _courante_," said Daniel de Mercedes, gazing into Beatrice's eyes.

"I believe it is," returned Beatrice, blushing.

"I have heard that it is your favourite dance."

"That is true," said Beatrice. "You have been well-informed."

"Would you do me the great honour," he said, bowing down before her, his emerald doublet shining like snakeskin, "of dancing it with me?"

"With pleasure," murmured Beatrice. The place, the occasion, the boy - all were perfect. And yet, as the room began to whirl around her, she could not shake off the feeling that something was not quite right...

Only when she saw Brandon Rose suavely leading his partner away from the dance floor did she realise what that something was.

* * *

"Oh, Bea!" exclaimed Alice as soon as she caught sight of her. After four waltzes, three polkas, one sarabande and a courante, Daniel had decided that maybe it was time to step away from the dance floor; he had gone to fetch some drinks while Beatrice waited on the terrace. She turned: kind, sweet Alice and that _horror_ were arm in arm! But she managed to muster up a smile.

"Ally!" she said, with what she hoped was warmth. "How nice to see you..."

"Bea, what on earth are you doing here? What about your ankle?"

"My ankle?" repeated Beatrice, confused.

"The nurse said you weren't to move from your bed! She was very strict about it...oh Bea, I've been worrying about you!"

She doesn't look very worried, thought Beatrice, determinedly avoiding Brandon's brazen gaze. What on earth could have Benedick been doing to hurt his ankle? Beatrice frowned slightly. But before she could make any reply, a young man of about her height with a Mozart-style wig, Viennese costume and Venetian mask moved towards them.

"I was wondering," he said, in a deep voice that was half-familiar, "if Princess Alice would do me the honour of dancing with me?"

Alice smiled and opened her mouth to say something, but Brandon Rose interrupted: "Unfortunately, Princess Alice is not disposed towards dancing at the moment."

Mozart was silent - probably too taken aback to say anything, thought Beatrice. If only Benedick were here - he'd soon set that Brandon Rose to rights! As it was, the duty fell on her.

"I do not know," she said, feeling the fire blaze in her veins, "why Mr Rose thinks he can decide Alice's fate. It is, or is it not, up to _her_ and her alone to choose her dance partners..."

"How does the lady know my name?" enquired Brandon, a single eyebrow arched sky-high.

"I heard my brother speak of you," said Beatrice, silently fuming.

"How very odd," said Brandon: "because I only met your brother today, and the last time I saw him he was locked in a dungeon."

"Fascinating!" Beatrice's sarcasm stung. "And how, pray, do you know that I am the sister of Benedick the Magnificent?"

For a moment he appraised her with his cool blue eyes. And then, having deliberated, he said: "They announced you as Princess Beatrice...I assumed you were of Starcastle, so it would _logically_ follow that you are the sister of my schoolmate Benedick. However, if you are Princess Beatrice of Urat rather than of Starcastle, I apologise for my mistake. But the likeness between you and Prince Benedick is...uncanny."

"Please," burst out Alice, as if she couldn't stand it for any longer, "all of this on my account! I'm sure we can solve this like...like civilised people! Firstly, I was much at fault for not introducing you. Bea, this is my - "

"- friend," interrupted Brandon.

"My friend Brandon Rose. Brandon, I'd like you to meet Beatrice, who is_ also_ my friend."

"But in fact," interjected Mozart, breaking his silence, "it is I who am at fault. I ought to have introduced myself, and my sister. My name," he said, taking off the mask, "is Prince Benedick the Magnificent."

"Ben..." breathed Beatrice. Brandon looked profoundly puzzled (and it would be a lie to say that this expression didn't suit him); Alice merely looked astounded.

"How did you get out of the dungeon?" demanded Brandon.

Benedick paused. Beatrice had been in a dungeon? - Well, best to parry gallantly... "How I got out," he said, in a grave voice, "is not important. The main thing is that I am here, and that Alice wants to dance with me." Here he took Alice by the hand and proceeded to lead her away. "But if Mr Rose happens to get itchy feet," he called out behind him, "he can _always_ dance with Beatrice!"

Beatrice wanted to stamp her foot, to hurl abuse after her brother - but she suppressed the urge. She was a princess, well brought up, and one who would not give Brandon Rose a reason to fault her for all the world. There was an awkward silence. Brandon broke it, his mouth resuming that casual smirk that irked her the most. Beatrice determined not to look at him, and concentrated her gaze on the ducks swimming on the pond beneath the terrace.

"I cannot help thinking," he said, "that I have seen you somewhere before."

Beatrice condescended to reply that this was highly improbable.

"I concede that more than likely it is only my imagination playing tricks on me...but I could have sworn I saw you, quite recently, in a place with dim light and a cobblestone floor...a place littered with straw...a place said to be full of...rats..." Beatrice turned sharply. His smile was mocking, intolerable. "Oh, of course!" he exclaimed, leaning nonchalantly on the balustrade. "It was at the Duke of Milan's Harvest Ball last year. I remember it well...we danced for hours."

"I am afraid that you are mistaken," said Beatrice, fuming. He was winding her up on purpose; she had never been at any Harvest Ball, and he knew it. "It must have been someone else you saw."

"In that case," said Brandon insolently, "I have not yet danced with you. Allow me to correct my mistake." He bowed low before her, flourishing his right hand behind his back as they had done in the old days. "Would Princess Beatrice do me the great honour of dancing with me? It seems they are playing the _courante_ again; I have heard that it is your favourite dance of all."

"Unfortunately," said Beatrice, concentrating on the ducks fishing for pondweed, "I am not inclined to dance at present."

"What a pity," said Brandon carelessly. "I am sure it would have been most pleasant."

The mother duck had now led her babies out of the water; they were shaking themselves dry, little moonlit balls of fluff... Beatrice wondered why Rose was being so unpleasant to her. He could not possibly know it was her he had left in the dungeon earlier that night. He could not possibly have guessed she had switched places with Benedick. Or could he?

Suddenly - like a lightning-bolt - her mother's words struck her. _Cherish your enemies at least as much as you cherish your friends, for they give you the chance to practise patience and compassion._ Patience and compassion! Too late...she was already deep in the mire of hatred. She had not cherished Brandon Rose at all...she had gone through the usual throes of negative emotion, without stopping to think, to observe herself. Her temper, as usual, had been quicker than her heart. She was just about to reconsider, to apologise, to say she would dance with him after all, when Daniel came, holding two crystal goblets of grape juice.

"Brandon!" he said, with surprise. "I was wondering where you had got to. I see you have met Beatrice."

"Indeed I have," said Brandon, smiling graciously.

"Isn't she lovely?"

"That she is," said Brandon. Beatrice thought she detected sarcasm beneath that veneer of elegance; but she ignored it. _Cherish your enemies_.

"You are both too kind," she said simply.

"And what do you think of Brandon?" said Daniel, in an avuncular manner. "Isn't he a spiffing chap?"

"Spiffing..." murmured Beatrice. She gathered her lips into a smile. "Quite."

"We've been best friends ever since - what was it Rose?"

"The day I arrived at I.C.," said Brandon.

"That's right...I was your mentor, wasn't I? Happy days..." Daniel reached over to clap Brandon on the shoulder. "Did you know his father is a great explorer?"

"Yes," said Beatrice. "Yes, I did know..." She broke off. "Our fathers went to I.C. together."

"That's just ripping!" exclaimed Daniel. "I bet your father has a lot of great stories about Cyril Rose!"

"Indeed he has," said Beatrice, pursing her mouth as she glanced at Brandon.

"Our fathers weren't the best of friends," said Brandon, not taking his eyes off Beatrice.

"No," she said slowly, "they weren't."

"Hence what happened in class today with Benedick!" exclaimed Daniel, chuckling. "_Now_ I understand."

"What happened?" asked Beatrice innocently.

"Your brother and I had...a minor altercation," said Brandon.

"Yes, they ended up fighting like...like a pair of schoolboys!" Daniel laughed.

"Thank you, Daniel," said Brandon, signalling with his eyebrows that he thought that was enough.

"What were you fighting about?" asked Beatrice, as though she had only just come into the world and had never heard of people fighting before.

Brandon opened his mouth to say something, but Daniel was too quick for him. "It started out as a historical debate and resulted in each party insulting the other's father. They even got detention for it!" He obviously thought it was a good joke; Beatrice could not help feeling a little hurt. "Can you imagine, Brandon, top student at the I.C., all of a sudden brawling like a common - "

"Yes," interrupted Brandon. "I think Princess Beatrice need not hear any more about the events of this afternoon."

"On the contrary," said Beatrice: "I am most interested."

Brandon ran his fingers through his hair, stepping away from them, towards the edge of the terrace. But before Daniel could say anything, the echoing voice of the Announcer announced:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to ask you all to gather in the ballroom for a speech."

Daniel offered Beatrice his arm, and they proceeded to follow the other couples back into the Great Common Hall. Brandon did not move.

Daniel paused. "Aren't you coming, Brandon?" he said.

"No, no, you go right ahead without me," said Brandon, his signature smile playing on his mouth. "I want to enjoy the fresh air for a moment longer."

Beatrice rolled her eyes.

* * *

At the sound of the announcement, Benedick and Alice emerged from the bushes; both were supremely red in the face. For all his grace and charm with girls he didn't care for, Benedick now realised that he became an incompetent slug in front of the one he loved. It would seem needless to embarrass him further by detailing his _faux pas_ - suffice to say that it was hardly pleasant for either party. And so it was that Benedick stayed behind while Alice went in alone.

He would live to regret not pursuing her.


	8. A Goblet Broken

**A/N: This one's quite short...the Royal Secret Service won't feature until next chapter. I may need a minor hiatus before the next chapter as life is going to be super-busy for the next couple of weeks. It's sort of a cliffie, but not really. Well. I can't really judge, because I know what comes next. Again, thanks for your lovely reviews!**

**Chapter Eight: A Goblet Broken**

_"Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too."_

- From Shakespeare's _As You Like It_

Boys don't cry. Everyone knows that. But the only other person in the garden apart from Letitia was Benedick, and there were soft sobbing sounds making counterpoint to the cicadas.

"Ben," she said, rushing towards him, "what's wrong?"

"Lettie," he said bitterly, the moonlight casting grim shadows over his face, "I'm such a fool."

"Oh no, you're not a fool, Benedick..."

"Yes, I am. I'm in love - that automatically makes me a fool, a madman. Haven't you read _As You Like It_?"

"'_Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love,_'" murmured Letitia.

"That wasn't the part I was referring to."

"I know. But before you brush it aside as cynicism...hurts will always be healed. Remember that. Besides..." She could not help smiling. "I'm sure Alice likes you. How could she not? You're such an adorable rogue."

"You only think that because I'm your cousin," mumbled Benedick.

"I'm sure I should think it even if I weren't!" exclaimed Letitia passionately. "You really must stop being self-deprecatory. You're a wonderful, strong, brave person. You just have to believe it."

"Even Beatrice is stronger and braver than me." Benedick gave a loud sniff; his whole body shuddered. "And she's a girl, for heaven's sake!"

His tears looked like pieces of silver in the dim light of Luna; Letitia's heart ached at the sight. "Come," she said gently, "let's go for a walk in the garden...let's watch the fish swimming in the lake...let's drown this self-hatred of yours in the soft white light of the moon."

Benedick grudgingly took her hand, and they went. The garden was quiet; there was obviously no one else there. They were both silent; with her keen intuition, Letitia correctly guessed that Benedick was in no mood for chatter.

They had nearly reached the main lake when there was a rustle in the bushes. Letitia felt Benedick's hand tighten in hers; they both froze in their tracks and listened. The rustle happened again, louder this time. There was evidently someone on the other side of the bushes. Benedick did not even dream of calling out to ask who it was. Perhaps he was right in doing so; they found out soon enough.

"Walden, oh Walden, _why_ do you do this to me?" It was a girl's voice that Benedick didn't recognise. "You could have _told _me that Beatrice was your cousin! Seeing you on that drainpipe - knowing you had climbed into her room - you have _no_ idea what it did to me!...Oh, don't look at me like that! Sometimes you can be so exasperating! No - don't talk back, let me finish. You think that, just because you're tall and handsome and intelligent, you're the master of the universe. Well, you're not, thank you very much! There are others better than you...others without that horrid sense of humour of yours, that schoolboy heartlessness, that...I mean, you _must_ admit you're very immature for your age, at nineteen my father was already ruling a kingdom...Oh no, don't do those puppy eyes of yours on me, they can't touch me. The fact is, for all your faults, I still..." The voice softened. "I still love you. I don't know why; I could have chosen anybody else...someone who wasn't an enemy of my family would have been a start, but Fate is so..." And the voice died away altogether, and the sound of kissing filled the air. Letitia's hand now tightened over Benedick's, and she led him away, tiptoeing hurriedly as if she couldn't bear to hear more.

When they were out of earshot, Letitia and Benedick both burst out laughing.

"I'm so happy to see you laugh!" exclaimed Letitia. She couldn't help feeling a bit put off at the same time: after all, Waldstein had run away from home because of a gypsy girl, and this one was evidently a princess...but she trusted her brother. She knew that all he had done was noble and just.

"I can't help it!" Benedick chortled. "Waldstein...and a _girl_...sounds like he was more uncouth than me!"

"Exactly! He didn't manage to get a word in edgewise the whole time..."

"Well, she was going on like a horse on fire..."

"Horse? Don't you mean house?"

"No...a horse on fire would run very fast."

"Oh, Benedick, you are _evil_!"

"Though I now feel very silly. I should have forgotten all my love-lorn speeches and just got to the point and kissed Alice! I mean, it worked for Waldo..."

"You _know_ he doesn't like being called that," scolded Letitia.

"Yes, I know. But he's not here, is he? Right now, he's probably..." But Letitia put her finger over his mouth.

"That's enough, young man." She shuddered. "Don't forget he's my brother."

"And of course, you are much too young to speak of such things." Benedick grinned. How naive she was! He liked the feeling that he had the upper hand for once...

"Now," said Letitia rather strictly, "let's return to the Hall. Your father is giving a speech...if we're lucky we might catch the end of it."

"My father? Here? Giving a _speech_? Why on earth didn't you tell me before?"

"Because you were down in the dumps and it wouldn't have helped," said Letitia impatiently. "Now, come on!"

* * *

_Some time earlier..._

Beatrice scowled when she saw Brandon coming towards them, hand in hand with Alice. He had doubtless wrenched her from the arms of Benedick! Just you wait, thought Beatrice - just you wait till I give you a piece of my mind, Mr Rose! She stepped even closer to Daniel, and sipped her grape juice so as to better ignore Brandon. But it was Alice who appeared at her side, so she forced a smile.

"I wonder who will be giving the speech," whispered Alice.

"Yes," said Beatrice. After another sip of the grape juice, she added cautiously: "Have you seen my brother?"

Alice blushed. "I...I don't know where he...I _think _he's probably in the garden."

"Mmm." Beatrice downed some more grape juice morosely. Presently a man in a dark red robe with "I.C." embroidered on it appeared on the stage; the lights dimmed as the waiters proceeded to place many candles onto the stage, blowing out the rest. The speech-maker faced them: he was a tall man with auburn hair with a slight wave to it, and a serious face with many smile lines. Beatrice almost spat out her grape juice in shock: _Father_! But he despised Interkingdom College! What could he be doing here?

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, smiling, "I am King Redmond of Starcastle, and I am honoured to have been asked to speak to you today. It is my great pleasure to welcome you to a new year at Interkingdom College! These first days are always among the busiest for the teachers and the board of governers, so I trust you will all be on your very best behaviour. We have all been working very hard to improve the course structure, and I trust you will enjoy the changes. Firstly, in the Gentlemen's College, archery has been added as an elective for those in their senior year..."

Beatrice glanced at Brandon. He had that indomitable smile on his face. How, oh how she wished she could wipe it off and replace it with a frown! He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows, nodding his head slightly. Inflamed, she looked away.

Father was going on and on about the coursework changes in the Women's College - she only listened with one ear. _French_ stitching now available for second years! How utterly wonderful. She smiled as she thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice. But her attention drifted...next to her, Daniel was looking even handsomer than ever in the dim light...his green eyes glowed like two magic furnaces, and that noble brow of his was furrowed into concentration...oh, dear boy! And yet she could not say she loved him as much as she wanted to. There was something missing. Something vital. Or was this what love was supposed to be like? Surely...surely Mother and Father, when they were young...surely it had been, somehow, more than this...

She smiled at herself. She had only known Daniel a few hours! How could she expect their love to be mature? She almost laughed out loud.

"Now," her father was saying, "first years. This is your ball! And this is your year. Any second year or Senior will tell you that first year is the year in which you have the time of your life. Of course, there is a lot of work, and you must needs get used to being away from your families. But this is the year for making friends - hopefully not enemies..." - here everyone laughed - "And the year you will remember for the rest of your lives. Now, enough serious business - to the fun and games! This year we are reintroducing the age-old tradition of the Interkingdom College Picnic, which is a social highlight of the year during which the young ladies and young men are allowed to mix. I have many fond memories of the picnics we had when I was a boy - and I know it may be hard to believe of someone as old as me, but it seems like just yesterday!" (More laughter.) "Also, the Interkingdom College Race will take place at the end of this term, so practise your riding skills, boys! This was something we never had in my day, which is perhaps a good thing, because even then I could never get horses to listen to me..." (Yet more laughter. Beatrice was surprised that Father was so good at making people laugh.) "Also, girls, there's a crotcheting competition for you, there's something to _really_ look forward to...and at the end of second term both colleges will cooperate to put on an opera. Which one is yet to be decided, but _The Marriage of Figaro_ and _The Magic Flute_ have been shortlisted as candidates. Auditions will be held in three weeks' time; more information will be available closer to the date.

"But enough of the future. Now to the present! As the second years and Seniors will be aware, the Initiation Ball has two - nay, three - main purposes. Firstly, it is to welcome the first years. Secondly, it is to sort the girls into hourses according to the way they dance (boys, you get sorted in the fencing tournament tomorrow). Thirdly...and this is the big surprise for the first years...it is to award a prize to the best couple on the dance floor!" (Laughter and applause filled the air.) "This year, a panel of judges have voted anonymously...and the winners are..." (There was a drumroll from the orchestra's percussionist.) "Princess Beatrice of Starcastle and Daniel de Mercedes, son of the Duke de Mercedes!"

More applause. Daniel took Beatrice's hand, and tugged her gently - but she was too busy gloating over the disappointment and jealousy mingling in Brandon's face. After a moment had passed, she pulled herself away, and they proceeded over to the platform.

"Princess Beatrice and Daniel de Mercedes," pronounced Redmond, rolling his R's, "kneel down." They knelt besides each other in front of him; a dignitary passed him two crowns of false gold, which he gently put on their heads. "I hereby proclaim you King and Queen of today's Ball!"

There was more applause. Redmond shaked Daniel's hand first; as he shook Beatrice's, he leant over and whispered in her ear: "I don't remember buying you that dress."

"I only just got it today," replied Beatrice.

"What? Some travelling pedlar tempted you with his expensive wares? Tut tut, Beatrice, I thought I could trust you with money!"

"Actually, it was a gift. From my godmother."

"Your _what_?"

"My godmother, apparently..."

"But you haven't got a godmother."

"That's what I told her!"

"Some confused old crone no doubt."

"She was quite strange," said Beatrice.

"Indubitably. But sharp, too, one would think, to find you in that dungeon..."

"Father!" Beatrice frowned. "Have you been spying on me?"

King Redmond smiled and his eyes twinkled merrily. Suddenly he looked much younger, like the schoolboy he once had been.

"It's time for you to exit the stage," he whispered, "or people will think we are strange."

Beatrice realised that her father had been shaking her hand for an inordinately long time. "Oh - right." And taking Daniel's arm, she left the stage as gracefully as possible. They resumed their former position, with Alice on Beatrice's left hand side.

"To conclude," boomed Redmond jovially, "I would like you to raise your glasses to your Headmaster and Headmistress, without whom none of this would have been possible."

There was the chiming sound of people knocking their glasses together. Next to Beatrice, however, Alice looked worried.

"I don't have a glass," she whispered to Brandon, "what will I do?"

"Here, have mine," said Brandon carelessly, "I can't stand this non-alcoholic grappa anyway."

"Thanks," she said, beaming gratefully.

And so they all toasted the Headmaster and Headmistress, drinking deeply from their crystal goblets.

Beatrice had not yet finished her grape juice when there was the sound of glass breaking next to her. She turned to see: Alice had clumsily dropped her goblet. How strange - but - oh my God!

Alice had collapsed onto the floor amongst the shards of broken glass, and was lying limp and lifeless like a marionette whose strings had been cut.


	9. Framed

**A/N: So I'm finally updating - and it's reasonably long, for my lovely reviewers who have waited so patiently for more. ;) Hopefully this shall tide you over till the next chapter. In the meantime...I love reviews. I'm _sure_ I haven't mentioned this before, but it is the truth. My thanks go to those who have so earnestly reviewed every chapter, or at least whenever they could...I'm eternally grateful. **

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Framed**

_A kingdom founded on injustice never lasts_.

- Seneca

King Redmond entered the interview room with a face that was the colour of the walls behind him - a dull, mouldy yellow. The Headmaster had chosen for the servant's quarters to be put at the disposal of the Royal Secret Service - he had obviously thought that the man in the tattered travelling cloak and black strip of a mask across the eyes and his equally unprepossessing sidekick were not fit elsewhere. He clearly had forgotten how prestigious the R.S.S. was - but then this must be forgiven him, as it seemed that nobody was in a right state of mind after The Event that had scarred the otherwise auspicious start of the school year. Several first-year princesses had actually gone up to the poor Headmaster to complain about how inconsiderate it was of Princess Alice to die in the middle of the Inception Ball. The whole school was in uproar - keeping everyone calm while they waited to give their statements was no mean task for the authorities. Therefore yes, it must be forgiven the Headmaster that he had forgotten the prominence of the Royal Secret Service.

But back to King Redmond. His face was a dull, mouldy yellow; his eyes, on the other hand, had a hollowness to them, with dark shadows accentuating their emotion. Apart from this, his appearance was unruffled, and he carried himself with dignity. The sidekick was glad of someone who wasn't a fainting lady or a young duke threatening to sue if they didn't at this instant let the Ball resume its pleasurable course. So glad was he that he even cracked a smile.

"Stride," said Meralds, his superior, "could you see if you could get two cups of coffee? - Black, no sugar."

"Of course, sir," said Stride respectfully, and waddled off not to the kitchens but to the corner of the room, where he began to warm some water on the stove. He half-fancied he saw Meralds roll his eyes. But a half-fancy is, as we know, less than nothing. He knew very well that Meralds appreciated his work and would never want him out of the room for an instant.

"King Redmond," said Meralds (even with his back turned Stride could see that weary half-smile on his superior's face), "please be seated."

"Thank you." And King Redmond sat - Stride knew this, because his sensitive ears heard the straw-stuffed sofa crunch as the royal's weight descended on it.

"King Redmond, this question is routine..." (And yet his tone was different, somehow) "I need to ask you where you were between ten forty-five and eleven o'clock this night."

"That is easy. I was on the podium, giving a speech."

"Any witnesses that can corroborate that, sir?" asked Stride, turning briefly from his coffee-making and giving the distinguished royal gentleman a disbelieving eyebrow. If Stride knew anything about Meralds, it was that he appreciated a sidekick who Suspected Absolutely Everybody.

"Yes, as a matter of fact..." said King Redmond. "Only a few hundred."

"Thank you, Stride." Meralds cleared his throat (a sure sign of appreciation). "That will do."

Stride knew this was a secret signal to carry on, to get the suspect off his guard.

"The fact is," said Stride, "this is all a matter of procedure. We already know who murdered Princess Alice." He spoke measuredly, so that his words might have their fullest impact. He half-expected King Redmond to be surprised that Princess Alice had been murdered and had not simply died of too much good living. But the royal was silent - which further confirmed his guilt. A conspiracy, decided Stride.

"Thank you, Stride," said Meralds, a little louder this time. Stride happily whizzed the coffee-grinder round his thumb.

"Who are your chief suspects?" King Redmond's voice was quiet, as though he did not want to be overheard.

The silence denoted a frown and a biting of lips on Meralds' part.

"I'm afraid," he said, after what had been an awful lot of coffee-grinding, "that is confidential."

King Redmond snorted. "My dear Agent Meralds, the whole of the Commons will have heard by now the names of the logically 'most likely' suspects. Brandon Rose, who gave Alice the poisoned drink; Princess Beatrice, who was standing on the other side of her and could have slipped the poison in while I was talking; and Daniel de Mercedes, who could have stretched one of his long arms behind Beatrice's back and inserted the poison without anybody noticing in the dim light. Of course, any agent even _dreaming_ that Princess Beatrice could have done it should be _permanently disrobed_."

"It is true that these are the most obvious suspects," said Meralds at length (and Stride heard that typically sarcastic curling of the lip). "However I do not for a moment believe that they are guilty."

"Good," grunted King Redmond.

"There is someone else against whom the evidence is much more worrying." There was a silence. "Stride," said Meralds loudly, "please go and fetch the head gardener; I need to see him."

"But surely, sir," said Stride, "one of the maids could - "

"_Go_."

And so, reluctantly, Stride went, closing the door softly behind him.

Now that they were alone, Meralds lifted off his mask with a weary sigh, revealing for the first time his face - the face of King James of Emereldom. The Service stressed secrecy, specially for its superfluously significant spies. Redmond leaned in towards him.

"_Who is it that you suspect?_" he whispered.

* * *

Beatrice gazed anxiously at her brother. He was snow white; he had not spoken since he saw Alice lying dead amid the broken glass. Almost imperceptibly, he was trembling all over. His eyes were wide and vacant, as though his soul had left his body to join the dead princess in the moment he realised she was gone. _That undiscovered country_, thought Beatrice...she sighed. It was all a nightmare; she still could not believe that poor Alice was really...

She put her hand over Benedick's. It was cold, leaden, like one of those modern statues designed to cause unease. Like a frozen hand; like a dead hand. Like Alice's hand had been when she picked it up to feel for a pulse. _Who did this_, she thought - who could have been so evil to even dream of such a thing, let alone carry it out? Surely even Brandon Rose could never have done something so terrible; after all, the goblet was intended for him. Or was it? Beatrice shuddered. Perhaps he had known Alice would be in need of a glass; or perhaps someone else had known his dislike of grape juice and just hoped he would hand it to his lover?...No, surely that was too risky.

Waldstein's words once again rang through her mind: "We think someone's trying to recreate the story of the Twelve Dancing Princesses here, with criminal intent." But the Dancing Princesses had not died. They had danced by night and slept by day, but they had not died. If what Waldstein had said was true, none of them were safe. Not even the girl at the end of the corridor complaining loudly to her partner that all this waiting was becoming too much to bear, that it was quite out of the question that they should be kept there for any longer and threatening that her father would declare war on the other states of the Commons if they did not resume dancing this instant. Beatrice bit the inside of her lip. If anybody had to die, why a kind, gentle person like Alice and not someone like that?...Not that she would wish death on anybody. But it seemed so unjust.

Just then a murmur rose in the corridor. A portly man in brown peasant's clothes was making his way down the corridor, followed by a stick of a man and two guards dragging a tall boy along with them. Beatrice gasped: it was Waldstein.

"Walden, what's going on?" she exclaimed as they passed her.

"I'm fine," called out Waldstein, though he looked just the opposite. His face was almost as white as Benedick's; he looked haggard, different from his usual merry self. "Just...don't worry about me, okay?" And with that he was ushered through the door and into the interview room.

Ten minutes later, the stick of a man - Beatrice assumed he was the sidekick of the R.S.S. agent - came out and requested that Princess Letitia, Prince Benedick, and Princess Beatrice enter the room.

Beatrice gently pulled Benedick up and led him forwards, Letitia following close behind. She's really got a lot of spunk for a child, thought Beatrice (who at sixteen believed herself completely grown up)...she's bearing it all very well.

The sidekick gestured that they be seated. Father was sitting opposite them, and a man in a traveller's cloak and mask paced back and forth behind him. Waldstein stood in the corner, hands manacled together. Letitia's eyes alighted on each man, and then averted quickly to the ground. Beatrice wondered what she was thinking.

"Thank you all for coming," said the man in the mask. He stopped for a moment, shooting a sharp, penetrating gaze at Letitia. "We are still waiting on the postmortem - the doctor said he did not know how long it might take. However, that Princess Alice was poisoned there can be no doubt."

His voice is familiar, thought Beatrice. Too familiar. But where...where have I heard it before? It does not fit in anywhere.

"There is of course a possibility that it was a poison that worked slowly, in which case this whole investigation has so far been worthless. But my conviction is that it is a faster poison - one that was inserted into the princess' goblet, tonight. Whether this poison was meant for Princess Alice or for Brandon Rose it is difficult to tell, but - "

"He did it," said a low, hard voice. Beatrice turned. Her brother was sitting motionless besides her - and yet from where else could the voice have come?

"Who?" Father's eyes were fixed on his son. Was he thinking the same thing as she was?

"Brandon Rose." And this time she saw his lips move; but the voice that issued from it was not his own. It was a voice she did not recognise; a voice with the darkness of night in it.

"Did you see him put the poison in the glass?" asked the masked agent.

"I read it in his eyes," said Benedick slowly, his facial muscles barely moving. "I saw it in his smile."

"These are serious accusations, Benedick," said Father, "you must be careful..."

"The lad's read too much poetry if you ask me," sniffed the sidekick. "Such airy-fairy nothings would never hold up in court. 'I saw it in his eyes...'"

"Thank you, Stride," said the agent, "but _nobody_ asked you."

There was a silence; it seemed an eternity before Letitia broke it.

"Why are Waldstein's hands manacled?" she asked.

"Though you are mistaken in referring to him as Waldstein, Princess, I would like to thank you for bringing us to the point," said the agent. "There have been some serious complaints about the length you young royals have been kept waiting, therefore the investigation needs to be terminated before its time and the most likely suspect arrested."

"He is the most likely suspect?"

"Yes."

A strange look came over Letitia's face. It was - indescribable - there was fear and something else - something indefinable - mingled. For a moment she looked almost frightening. And then the moment passed, and she cast her eyes down.

"That is nonsense," said Benedick in that same strange voice, beside her. "William the Gardener was participating in a rendezvous at the time of...her death."

"Even if that were so," said the agent, "it would not prevent him from slipping the poison in beforehand. Besides, there are no witnesses to this supposed rendezvous..."

"They sit before you, sir," said Letitia coldly.

"Very well. At what time exactly did you see this rendezvous occuring?"

"Oh, we didn't see anything; we heard it."

"I see. What did you hear?"

"We heard voices, that is, a voice - "

"Only _one_ voice, then."

"Wal- that is, William...did not speak the entire time."

"He was receiving a bit of a lecture from his beloved."

"But we heard them kissing afterwards."

"H'm. And you want me to believe this? How do you know he was there, if you did not hear his voice?"

"Are you suggesting, sir," said Benedick, "that the princess was kissing _herself_?"

"I am suggesting," said the agent, "that it is easy to replicate the sound of kissing. It is not to say that I doubt your word, but what you say is unfortunately too scant evidence. Perhaps if the princess herself comes forward to save her loved one, tells us exactly the time of their meeting...who is she, exactly?"

"We...don't...actually know."

"It would _never_ stand up in court," said Stride.

"No," said the agent, "it wouldn't. As it stands, William the Gardener is the only one with no alibi for the time we suppose the poison was added to the drink."

"I'm sorry," said Beatrice, as politely as she could, "but how do you..._suppose..._that an undergardener could get into the Hall unobserved? And having done so, poisoned a drink without anybody noticing?"

"And you haven't even interviewed _half_ the suspects, so how do you know he is the only one with no alibi?" added Letitia.

"Besides, what motive could he have for killing Princess Alice?" asked Benedick, his voice possessed of the low rumble of thunder.

"That is something we have yet to determine," said the agent, clearing his throat.

Just then, the door burst open and a - slightly wider - lady exploded through it.

"_E 'catastrofico_!" she exclaimed in the strong voice of a female opera singer. "Terrible! Horrible! Oh _Mamma Mia_, why I ever a come into this a place?" She spoke rapidly and with a strong Italian accent.

"What's happened?" asked the agent.

"Please - calm yourself and have a seat," said King Redmond.

She gratefully plonked down next to King Redmond, causing the sofa to bounce up on his side.

"I a making a lasagne for the midnight feast in the kitchen and I a going to get the more flour and - _terribile_!"

"What was terrible?" asked Letitia.

"_A naked man in the flour chest!_ Nothing on except the little underwear! I think I am a gonna have the heart attack!"

"A naked man? In a flour chest? Goodness gracious!" said Redmond, a smile on his lips for the first time.

"I a talking to him, he a been unconscious for some time. He say he a waiter for the Ball an' he been knocked out by a some rough rapscallion. Whata is 'rapscallion' exactly?" She looked around her, frowning; but when nobody answered, she continued: "A-anyway, he a been knocked out and a taken of his clothes. Someone a stolen them."

"I see it now," said Stride. "He disguised himself as a waiter, poisoned the drink, and handed it to Brandon Rose..."

"What motive? What motive could he have had to murder Rose?" exclaimed Letitia.

"Tell them, Walden, tell them!" urged Beatrice, appealing to the shadowy, near-forgotten figure in the corner of the room. "Tell them you had nothing to do with any of it! Tell them the name of the princess!"

"I cannot compromise her honour," said Waldstein, shaking his head. "She could get expelled, and worse, for having a romantic liaison with a gardener."

"But you're not - "

"Anything I say will be held against me, Beatrice; I know how it works. It's better for me to be silent, to save those I love best."

"He is right," said the agent quietly. "It is better for him to say nothing."

"But - "

"This is an outrage," said Benedick mechanically; Beatrice remembered the dead hand and shuddered.

"It is injustice itself!" cried Letitia.

"William Jones," said Agent Meralds, in that voice that was oh so familiar, walking up to the cowering Waldstein, "I hereby arrest you for the murder of Alice of Laudum."

"He's been framed!" pleaded Beatrice, exasperated.

"Beatrice - all of you. Do not make a spectacle of yourselves. The Royal Secret Service knows best," said King Redmond, in a controlled tone of voice that yet brimmed over with empathy. "It is an offence to doubt the word of an agent of the law."

"Uncle Redmond!" exclaimed Letitia, horrified. "Do not be like this...you are a king! You can bend the law, surely! My father would, if he was here...I know it! Please, make them release him!"

"Unfortunately, not even a king can bend the law," said Redmond measuredly, his eyes sad as they looked upon Agent Meralds, "and even fathers must sometimes sacrifice their children to justice. It is the way of the world."

"Then it is an awful world," said Letitia, "an evil world!"

"Nonetheless, it is the world in which we live," said Agent Meralds softly. And looking at his face, Letitia fancied she saw something sparkling in the left eyehole of his mask. Something that looked, inconceivably, like a tear.


	10. Cinderella loses it

**A/N: Short but hopefully sweet. May take me a while to update this...in the meantime you can always glance over this story's companion piece, _Once Upon a Floppy Hat_, if you find yourself hankering after more...it's about the early days of the Masked Men, actually reworking classic fairy tales for once. I'm currently working on the second chapter, _Not-so-little Red Riding Hood_. **

**Criticism and/or compliments treasured as always.**

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**Chapter Ten: Cinderella loses it**

_Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."_

- Edgar Allan Poe

Run, run, run. Run furiously, run quickly. Run like the wind, run like the hart hunted down by dogs. Run, Beatrice, run.

It had been at the worst possible moment that she had realised what the time was. The men had taken Waldstein to the same dungeon Beatrice and Brandon had occupied earlier that night, and she needed to plead with the secret agent, with Father, with anybody and everybody. Instead she found herself running, lost in endless corridors and panicking as if her life were at stake, as if she might be murdered too.

She half-doubted that the Godmother's words would come true, indeed deep inside herself she felt she was being needlessly superstitious, but all the same she ran, as she could not risk the transformation - not here, not now. She did not know when, and if, Benedick would again put on his disguise, but there was no time to think, to plan - she ran, she only ran.

That is, she ran until she bumped into something warm, solid, stable. She glanced up and saw Brandon Rose. No, for God's sake, not him!

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered, "but I'm really in a hurry...bye!" She had five minutes, less than five minutes. She tried to disentangle herself and move on, but she soon realised that he had his hands clamped firmly around her waist.

"Let me _go_!" she exclaimed, more bewildered than angry.

"You poisoned her drink, didn't you?" he said quietly.

"_What_? No, of course I didn't - now please, would you just..."

"You're not going anywhere, young lady." The corridor was ill-lit, and his face looked strangely dangerous with the shadows playing upon it.

"I _need_ to," she said, "you don't understand!"

"Of course I understand: you're fleeing from justice."

"Fleeing from justice?" In another situation she might have laughed. Here she did not: she was becoming irritated, and Brandon's hands around her made her feel more than a little uneasy... "You're merely trying to shift the blame away from yourself!"

"My dear girl," he said, breathing hard, "if you don't take that back this instant you shall be very sorry indeed."

"I shan't take it back!" she exclaimed, "I shan't, I shan't, I shan't! You had the opportunity and the motive to kill Alice! You were jealous of her and Benedick, and so, you poisoned your own drink to make it look like you were the target and gave it to her!"

He jerked her violently towards him. They were now so close that she could feel his breath on the skin of her neck. And all the time, she heard an invisible clock ticking at the back of her head...

"I would _never_," he said, "_ever_ hurt her. You don't understand what she was to me..."

"I understand very well, thank you!" she said, trying to get loose. But every time she moved, his hold on her became stronger and tighter. "You loved her, and when she forsaked you..."

"Forsook," he corrected.

"So you agree she had fallen for Benedick!"

"I agree to no such thing; I merely cannot tolerate bad grammar."

"_Argh_!" But she could not escape. It was going to happen: she was going to turn into a version of Benedick in front of the last person she would have wanted watching.

"I know they've arrested some gardener...but that's ridiculous," he said, "a gardener could have had no possible motive. As for you..."

"_Me?_ She was the only friend I had at this wretched school!"

"You were jealous. I could see it in your eyes," he said softly.

"Jealous? Why, pray, should I be jealous of Alice?"

"Because I loved her."

"That's _enough_!" And by some miracle, she managed to wreak herself free. And before he could catch her, she ran, she ran and ran. "Your accusations are as empty and flimsy as morning gossamer," she shrieked. "Your mind is deranged; you don't know what you're saying or doing!"

"But it's true, isn't it?" he called out after her. "You _were_ jealous of Alice!" And he set out in a sprint, following her, hounding her down...she was fast, but he was faster, and she began to panic more than ever. Suddenly she broke off to the left and barged through an oak door, shutting it firmly behind her, swiftly locking it - leaning against it, knowing he was behind it, waiting, thumping against it, trying to break it down...but she was safe, at least for the time being. If she could not leave the men's I.C., then she could at least transform in peace, where nobody could see her.

There was a moment's silence. On the other side of the door she could hear Brandon Rose breathing; his very breath was predatory, wolfish. Looking down at her feet she realised she had lost a shoe. She did not even have time to realise the connection to Cinderella before she felt a warmth trickling down her spine, a swish of fabric against her skin. The next thing she knew she was wearing her brother's uniform again, and her beautiful wig had disappeared, leaving her cropped red locks bare. She slumped down against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. It had happened, and now she had no reason to worry.

It was then that she took proper notice of her surroundings. She was in what was evidently the room of one of the students; it was tastefully furnished, with dark green brocade curtains and a maple four-poster bed in the corner. And a...

And a boy sitting on the bed, staring at her.

"Oh...h-hello..." she said.

"Which are you," he asked, "boy or girl?"

"Girl," she said, hoping to God Brandon couldn't hear them.

There was a pause; he had not stopped staring at her. Nor she at him, for that matter. He was birch-tree slender, with a mop of dark curls and eyes that sparkled in the candlelight; crouched on the bed as he was, he looked quite small, almost elfish.

And then the thumping on the door resumed, and Brandon called out, "Beatrice, I know you're in there: open up, or I'll knock the door down!"

Beatrice was going to say something about how incredibly gentlemanly he was being, but she remembered she was not alone in the room in the nick of time and blushed apologetically.

The dark-haired boy gestured that she get away from the door, while he himself sprang up and leant against it.

In a loud, clear voice, he said: "Would you kindly go away? I'm trying to study in here!"

Silence. "Who is this?" asked Brandon eventually.

"It's Nameless," said the boy.

"Nameless?" The sound of laughter. "Look, I know you've got Beatrice in there; there's no use hiding her...she's a murderer, did you know that? Let me in, and I can..."

"No such luck, I'm afraid," said the boy, "there's no one in here. You must have got the wrong door."

But thumping recommenced. Senselessly frightened, Beatrice moved backwards behind the four-poster. Glancing at her, the boy put a finger to his lips and for a moment closed his eyes, a look of intense concentration on his face. And then, opening them again, he called out: "Whoever you are, you can stop that now! I'm going to let you in...you can see for yourself that there's nobody in here."

Beatrice gesticulated desperately that he mustn't open the door; but it was already too late, the boy was unlocking it and letting Brandon in. From the very first moment she cowered from his gaze: his eyes were piercing, like those of an eagle. But he did not look shocked; nor did his eyes taunt her like they usually did. She was going to say something - she knew not what - when he said:

"Where are you hiding her?"

And she realised he must not have seen through her disguise, and was relieved. She decided to take up a manly stance by the four-poster.

"As I told you," said Nameless, "there is no one here but me."

What was he talking about? She wasn't exactly inconspicuous in her position by the bed.

"Will you permit me to search?"

"Be my guest."

Beatrice decided they were both crazy. Brandon went over to the wardrobe, which he proceeded to open and search through. In despair, Beatrice waved to Nameless to catch his attention while Brandon's back was turned - but when she put her hand out, she could not see it. She made all sorts of motions with it, but still the air was vacant before her.

By some miracle, she had become invisible.

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_End Part the First_


	11. Persimmon

**Author's Note: **Now the story is finally going somewhere, I think it is safe for me to let you all know the significance of the Ivory Peacock. Really early in the piece, don't you think?...Yeah. I know.

I'm trying to write as much as possible now, because I will be going travelling on a one-way ticket in a month or so and the lack of a stable internet connection will cause extremely erratic updates.

By the way, you have A Clue in this one. I'm not telling you what it is, but it's there.

Happy reading! (And reviewing! :P)

=)

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_Part the Second_

**Chapter Eleven: Persimmon**

_Double, double, toil and trouble,_

_Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. _

- From Shakespeare's _Macbeth_

It was lunch time at the Interkingdom College for Young Men of High Birth, and Brandon Rose was nowhere to be seen. The reason for this? He was working his way through the subterranean passages of the school, following a disembodied hand carrying a white candle. Creepy? Perhaps.

Brandon had not slept that night. How could he sleep, after all that had happened? Alice was dead, her body transported into the Interkingdom College vault; he had unsuccessfully chased Beatrice; and talking to that boy, Nameless, left a foul taste in his mouth. There was something not right about him that Brandon couldn't quite put a finger on. For one, of course, he was a trespasser: Brandon had checked the name engraved upon the door, and the room in fact belonged to Mr Pebmarsh. What was this boy doing in the history teacher's room? And who on earth was he? "Nameless". What a ridiculous irony of a name.

Presently he turned a corner and reached the Infernus, the room (a far too distinguished name for a hole in the ground) in which the witch dwelled. The hand proceeded to scoot across to the nearest bookshelf, where it put down the candle, extinguished it with some difficulty. Brandon watched in amusement as it bounced up and down in pain after burning itself. The witch was not there, it seemed; his journey had been in vain. Under normal circumstances, he would have shrugged his shoulders and returned some other time; but these were not normal circumstances. A vein pulsed under his left eye, doing a exhibitionistic dance that only irritated him further. He was just about to let it know where exactly it belonged when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

Brandon was not usually easily frighted, but it must be forgiven him that at that moment he jumped. After all, he was under considerable strain. Time was running out. And now, what the deuce -

"Oh, it's you," he said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Yes, it's me," said the witch, smiling. Her cheeks, already hollow and cavernous, seemed all the more so in the shadows. Something demonic sparkled in her almond-shaped eyes, something he had not noticed before; and her hair, though usually thick and knotted, today resembled the proverbial bird's nest. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Brandon started pacing without realising he was doing so. "I need your help."

"That is obvious," said the witch, "else you would not have come here. I'm actually surprised, as it's the first time since you started at this school. I expected to see you much more often, wanting this and that. Obviously you are not much like your father."

"You can leave my father out of it!" - He ran his fingers through his hair. "...Sorry," he said. And after a pause, "I wouldn't have come if it wasn't urgent."

"So I see," said the witch, smiling all the more. Oh, devil take that smile, that mocking, delighted smile. "Well, what is it that's troubling you?"

"In an hour," said Brandon, "the fencing tournament begins, the tournament that decides which house each first year is in."

"Yes," said the witch, "so the tradition goes."

"The first years are set against the seniors...and I've been allotted Prince Benedick as an opponent."

The witch arched her thin, already spiky eyebrows. "And that's a problem?"

"You don't understand...I think he's a girl."

She laughed. It was a silvery laugh, like a brook in a wild forest - very far from the stereotype of a witch's cackle. But then she was not that type of witch.

"You think he's a girl! Ah, what a conundrum! What a grave and heinous problem! Oh heaven forfend us from such perils! "

"Actually, it _is_ a problem," he said, trying not to lose his temper. "I would _never_ fight a girl...it is explicitly against the code of honour. And after that..." His frown grew. "Yesterday I accused her of putting the poison into Alice's drink. She, in turn, implied that _I_ must have killed her..."

"And did you?"

"Of course not! What do you _think_?" he spat.

"I don't know." Did that smile of hers ever vanish?

"Look, I don't have time or energy to bicker; I need something from you, will you oblige me?"

She laughed dryly. "O venerable Brandon Rose, what is thy wish? What can I do for thee, O noble one?...But first tell me: the thing your father promised me in return for the money I magicked up for him...is he still going to deliver it to me at the end of this year?"

"Of course," said Brandon, "now what I need..."

"You lie, Rose," she said, in a voice deeper and more menacing than he had imagined such a frail creature could produce, "and I'll be damned if I believe you. Your father is a swindler and a liar, and I was sick to believe he might for once honour his promises. _I _have kept you, cushioned you, made you comfortable in a school you ought never to have been admitted to - I have been at your service ever since you came here, though you chose not to take advantage of my powers. That is your choice. But your father will _never_ uphold his part of the bargain."

"How dare you," exclaimed Brandon. "My father is an honourable man, and so am I."

"You? A man? A boy, only! Now listen to me. Your father promised me a mystical jewel by name of the Ivory Peacock in return for the money I gave him, and the protection I have given you. He told me he owned this jewel, but that he kept it safe in a place I would not be able to find it. At the end of the year he was to give it to me. And yet last night," she paused, narrowing her eyes. "Last night," she intoned, "I saw it on a pendant around the neck of Princess Beatrice of Starcastle!"

"That's impossible," said Brandon. "It must have been another...a copy..."

"_There is only ONE such jewel in the entire world._" Her voice was a snake's hiss, dangerous, viper-like. Her eyes were slits, staring at him, devouring him with their fierce gaze...

"Then my father must have been mistaken and thought the jewel _he_ was offering you was the one you wanted," said Brandon lightly.

"No, my dear boy, _your father__ promised what he didn't have_. But he didn't know the wrath of Persimmon..." She circled him like a hyena circling its prey, never taking her eyes off him. Those eyes were magnetic, and Brandon began to feel - all of a sudden - very sleepy, reluctant to even move... "Brandon Rose, when I realised last night how I had been conned, I knew what my revenge would be, and I waited, like a spider waits for the fly to blunder into its web...and now you have come..."

"I don't understand why you didn't just snatch the jewel off her neck, if it means so much to you," said Brandon, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"The jewel has to be _given_ to me, otherwise its powers are useless for my purposes..."

"Well then I'll simply have to give it to you, won't I?" said Brandon, fighting off a yawn. I'll have to have a nap this afternoon, he thought, that's for certain. These sleepless nights do a man no good...

"You? Give it to me?" she suddenly stopped. "Don't be ridiculous...how would you manage that?"

Brandon felt too sluggish to shrug, so he lifted a solitary eyebrow. "Simplicity itself. Either I enchant Beatrice to such an extent that she makes a gift of it to me...or I steal it from her. After all..." - and here he _did_ yawn - "...her family must have stolen it from my father...I have no doubt he meant to keep his word...so it's perfectly moral for me to steal it back. After all, a promise is a promise."

"You're serious, aren't you," she said, her voice a low murmur.

"Of course I am!...Now, if you excuse me, I'm feeling very tired; I think I might just use your cauldron as a pillow..."

But she snapped her fingers as he slumped towards it, causing him to regain equilibrium and suddenly blink several times in rapid succession.

"What happened?" he asked, confused. "I feel as though I've had an extremely strong dose of caffeine...without the negative side-effects...no foul taste of coffee..."

"Never mind." The witch was smiling again, somehow more vibrantly than before. "I can't have you hitting your head against my cauldron, that's all. First of all, it was a very expensive cauldron, and secondly I don't want you getting hurt now that you are to be my saviour. Now. Tell me what it was you wanted from me. I will see what I can do, and before you leave you will make a pact with me concerning the jewel, yes?"

Brandon nodded. After all, he did not have much time...better to go along with what the minx said.

"As I said before," he began, "I _think_ Benedick is a girl. That is, I think Princess Beatrice and Prince Benedick have switched places for some reason. Judging by 'Benedick's' sudden improvement in history, I think I can guess why."

"Then last night the jewel was around the neck of the boy?"

"No. They switched back for the ball. I'm pretty sure." I hope so, at least... "But the point is, I _can't_ fight Beatrice; firstly as a point of honour, and secondly because she enflamed me so much yesterday with her accusations - because she seems to _always_ enflame me, always get my temper up - that I'm worried that I might seriously injure her if we fight."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"I was wondering if there's any way to find out _for sure_. I mean, I have no proof beyond my gut instinct."

"And if you're wrong?"

"Then I'll simply fight this Benedick, and win. And, my God, will I win...I mean, if she's a boy, then I really..."

"Hmm." Persimmon's eyebrows were more arched than ever. "It seems to me you've fallen in love with this Beatrice figure of yours..."

"Love?" Brandon burst out laughing. "With Beatrice? Not in a million years! I can't stand her, can't endure her! She insulted my father you know...if indeed, it was...'she'..."

One of the corners of Persimmon's mouth rose above the other, giving her a faintly mischievous look. "And you're very touchy about your father, aren't you," she said. "Lord save those who dare to speak ill of him..."

Brandon bit the inside of his cheek. Don't lose your temper now, she has a favour to carry out... "I am simply wondering if it is possible to find out beyond any doubt that Benedick has really been replaced by his sister."

"Ah, my dear Master Rose. Unfortunately for you, there is no way for me to find out what you ask."

"But surely, you have ways of knowing things...?"

"Only certain things, my boy. There _are_ limitations." And she clapped him on the shoulder merrily. I think I preferred her before, he thought.

"Well, that's a pity." He frowned. "Is there really nothing you can do?"

"Whether or not it is as you say is your own problem. You must find out on your own. But I should be able to delay things, so that you have more time..."

A faint green glow emerged above the cauldron. Brandon peered over it. On the surface of the water was the image of the main quadrangle of the boys' I.C. It was a fine day: perfect weather for fencing. Persimmon presently threw some seeds - caraway seeds, he thought - into the mixture. Nothing happened. That is, nothing happened until, even in the bowels of the earth as they were, he felt the dull thud of rain beating down on the roof of the building. In the picture it was now bucketing cats and dogs.

"As far as I know, since 1767 it has been in the College Rules and Regulations that if it rains on the day of the fencing tournament the sorting will be done through a chess tournament instead. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe there is nothing in the gentleman's code of honour that stipulates he must not play chess against a woman?"

"There isn't." Brandon beamed. "Thank you...this is an immense help." And as he turned to go -

"Uh, uh, uh," she said, wagging her finger at him. Suddenly his feet were as if stuck to the ground. "Aren't you forgetting something, chivalrous sir?"

"Oh." Brandon had, as it so happened, forgot. "Look, can't we do it some other time? I'll come back, say, tomorrow, and we can finalise things the proper way."

"Oh no, sonny, you're not getting out of it _that_ easily. Don't worry, it won't hurt. All I need you to do is to repeat the words after me. _I solemnly swear that I will bring Persimmon the Ivory Peacock stone before the year is out, else may my soul rot in Hell._"

"I-solemnly-swear-that-I-will-bring-Persimmon-the-Ivory-Peacock-stone-before-the-year-is-out, else-may-my-soul-rot-in-Hell," repeated Brandon very rapidly. "Now can I go?"

She shook her head. "You're an atheist, aren't you?"

"How did you guess?"

She shrugged. "A God-fearing Christian would never stake his soul so willingly, nor, usually, say 'Hell' so lightly...and quickly. But let me tell you...if you do not keep your word, all the black magic in the world shall descend upon your head, and believe me, that's a far from pleasant experience."

"_Now_ may I go?"

She smiled. "First tell me more about the murder." Her eyes sparkled intensely, though whether with wickedness or compassion he could not tell. "Is it true they have arrested this...gardener?"

"True as Heaven," said Brandon. The witch coughed; he grinned for the first time in what felt like eternity. "...Yes, it is true," he said.

She shook her head as if bewildered.

"The waiter whose clothes were stolen apparently swears that it was this William Gardener fellow," added Brandon. "They had an identity parade and everything..."

"Hmph. That's not much by way of evidence. It's very easy to get people to swear things that aren't true...bribery, torture, whatever. I wonder what motive they ascribe to this William, though. After all, it is always the motive that is important..." She paused. "On the other hand, it is quite easy to find an incentive for a crime in almost anyone."

"For example?"

"For example...though it is hardly general knowledge, you are the illegitimate son of Queen Tara of Laudum and therefore Alice's half-brother, a fact you have been _very_ careful to keep quiet. Should anything happen to Alice - which, now, it has - _you_ stand heir to the Laudum throne and all its riches. If that is not a motive, my dear Brandon Rose...I don't know what is."

A vein throbbed in his temple. Smiling ever more malignantly, she clicked her fingers and said in a hiss of a whisper, "_Now_ you can go."


	12. Old friends

**Chapter Twelve: Old friends**

It was not long after Brandon had left that the witch found herself with another visitor.

She was no flighty thing, but the way the man emerged from the shadows in which he had been obscured - the way he seemed to _melt_ into reality - was enough to give her nerves a sharp twang.

"Who's there?" she demanded.

The figure was dressed in a long, musty cloak and wore a cloth mask over his eyes.

He did not answer. Kept on stepping forwards. She felt herself pressing her cold, white fingers to her heart as if to silence it.

"What are you doing here?" she said, with a coldness that masked her fear. If it was someone who had followed her from Mindia...

All of a sudden two warm, strong hands were pressing against her throat, feeling for the cavities of her neck, pushing, suffocating...

She felt the life evaporating out of her, saw her past flashing by her...

Her childhood in the forest with her two brothers...the liquid brown eyes of the boy she loved, glinting in the sun as he kissed her...the silver jewel in the shape of a butterfly, revealing an ugly truth...her quest for revenge, the overpowering greed and malice that claimed her for their own...and then the disgrace, her mother's expression of grief, of heartbreak, of disappointment...

And then her supposed death, her disappearance from the world that she had once loved so dearly, and had now turned against her. Her escape to Mindia, where she had perfected the art of magic, and learnt her many dark secrets...learnt of the Ivory Peacock, which would restore innocence to anyone, even if they had partaken in the blackest crimes...

Sought the Ivory Peacock like water, felt for it the same need she felt for air...

But too late. She had now neither air, nor the jewel that would give her peace. She was headed for Hell, or worse, obliteration.

The past had caught up with her. This was the end...

* * *

Brandon Rose welcomed the soft strands of rain as they danced on his face. He was on his way to the tournament, where he would prove once and for all Benedick was Beatrice. For what girl was good at chess? Effeminate tactics, puny pawn moves, hopelessly prone to being checked...he could see what would happen plain before his eyes. Under normal circumstances, he would have laughed. But his jaw displayed a hard, grim determination. Defeating this snake would, somehow (he knew not how), make him feel better about Alice. As though he were fighting for her. As though the symbolic victory over her potential murderer promised greater things...

The more he thought about it, though, the less he could support his rash accusations of the night before. Princess Beatrice was, really, no killer; and what motive could she have? He had been crazed, angry. Just because Alice was that much better looking than the red-headed scamp dressed in boys' clothes didn't mean the said red-headed scamp would murder her for it. Nor (he decided) was it likely that Beatrice felt any sort of interest in _him_. So jealousy seemed entirely out of the question.

And yet victorious he would be. He smelt the scent of success in the fresh, cold air.

* * *

Death is, after all, not such an unpleasant thing; the phantoms that come to greet you as you pass out of this world are not always malignant. If this was anything like the other side, the witch would be happier in death than she had been in life...

The pain and the suffocation had stopped, and she was now surrounded by a white mist. In front of her - a pair of familiar eyes that gazed at her hungrily, adoringly...Earnestly. Ruffled brown hair like the old oak leaves that crunch underfoot in an autumn forest.

A mouth gravitating towards hers...

And then the mist dispersed, and reality came back, descending like a block upon her.

He was no longer strangling her. He had taken off his mask and was standing there gazing at her. Harshly. Critically.

"Jimmy," she said, and her voice was like the bottom of a pond that once had been teeming with life but was now dry. Soil cracked and infertile.

"You swore you'd never come back." His voice was low and somehow without timbre.

"I wouldn't've, Jimmy, I swear, but the Bhagavits, they were chasing me..." She realised she was acting like a pathetic schoolgirl and hardened her face. "It is unfortunate, of course," she added in a different tone, "but here I am."

"Then I see I was not quite clear enough last time. I will not make the same mistake now. If you are not off this continent within a week, it will be death to you, do you hear?"

"Well it would be death for me if I left it. If it's death here or death elsewhere, I choose the former, naturally. To be closer to you," she added, with as much irony as she could muster. But she wasn't sure it was very convincing, so she went to the other side of the cauldron, where her face would be in shadows; where he could not see how close she was to crying.

"If you do not leave here immediately I will hunt you down personally and see you hanged, do you hear?" And then, calming himself, "How long have you been here?"

"Couple of months, give or take." As carelessly as possible. "Came after my brother. He promised me something I need so...I had to make sure he wouldn't go back on his word. Of course, yesterday I found out he never intended to keep it."

"And you took it out on a poor, innocent princess."

"I'm sorry?"

"A couple of months you say you've been here. And what are the results? Already you have murdered a young girl and framed my son for the crime."

"_Our_ son."

"Then you admit it."

"I admit he is our son - of course."

There was a silence. The fire flickered; so many hissing tongues. Even in the semi-darkness she could see the conflict playing in his eyes.

"You aren't sure he didn't do it, are you," she said - very softly, the air purring in her mouth.

"Of course I'm sure - only - " He stopped short; took a few steps towards the cauldron, sprinkled in some dust from the side. The bubbles turned a flagrant red.

"Only?" She was really sarcastic now. "Only _with such a mother_, you think, _doesn't he have a natural predisposition towards evil_?"

His nostrils flared as he looked at her. "I should never have listened to you."

She found it in herself to caw. "Ha! Ah, but King James, you did." And over the cauldron, through the steam, she stretched her white hand. The nails were dirty, and the skin was dry and worn from the chemicals of her trade. But it was a beautiful hand yet.

Her eyes glowed in the shadows.

King James of Emereldom found himself powerless against the desire to take the hand in his...

He felt half in a dream as he felt the cold fingers against his skin. His eyes were bleary as he watched her.

"Esmerelda wasn't...," he summoned the strength to say, though the words were incoherent, drowsy. And then "She and I have...a daughter..."

"Princess Letitia the Ethereal Starchild - yes, I know," she said, like a nurse to a little boy who was having trouble taking his medicine.

"You were wrong."

"Or lying."

"Or lying." He repeated the words obediently. The smoke swirled upwards in a tower of crimson...

And then a vein snapped in his jaw and he pulled his hand away as though from the jaws of a crocodile.

"To this day she thinks Waldstein is her son, and to this day I cannot find the strength to tell her otherwise."

"Oh, so that's why you convicted him of murder? So that it would be easier to break it to her...'darling, this boy is a criminal, a very devil...but don't worry, he isn't actually our son so it's alright'."

"_You _have a nerve to talk of devils, Lidia of Lettham."

As she looked at him with glinting eyes under those jagged eyebrows, he wondered how he had ever managed to let her go, his torment, his demon...

"Alright, I'll leave your precious Commons."

It took him by surprise. "Really? You mean that?"

"Oh don't sound so pleased, one would think you _wanted_ to get rid of me."

"But are you serious?"

"Sure." She smiled. Her cracked lips rose and the crowsfoot hieroglyphs by her eyes looked ready to dance.

"Just bring me the Ivory Peacock. And I'll go."

"A bird?"

"A jewel. Don't, please, pretend you've never heard of it."

"Well I haven't."

She raised her eyes to the lichen-lined ceiling.

"Alright. Be difficult. Great big diamond-inlaid pendant. Magical powers. Last seen on the neck of your niece Beatrice, so I'm guessing it belongs to her father. I chased my brother half-way 'cross the world to get it. Only to find he never had it in the first place."

"Thought you were chased by Bhagavits?"

"That too."

For the first time he smiled. Sarcastically.

"And when I give you this jewel, you'll use its magical powers to disappear. By magic."

"Tautology, James."

"I'm aware."

"And besides, I can already disappear. Without magic."

"Then why don't you?"

"I need the pendant. I _must have_ it, Jimmy."

Her voice had changed. It was a young girl's voice now, a young girl James had once found irresistible... Her eyes implored him with even greater force. They spoke of desperation, of lonely nights under a foreign sky with no one to love you, no one to protect you. They spoke of isolation. They spoke of degradation.

"Then you shall have it," he whispered.

And with that, he left.

* * *

Brandon was no longer so sure - he was not sure at all - that Benedick was Beatrice. In fact he began to believe that he had been wrong the whole time, that this angel face was truly a scrubbed boy.

He was losing. He, who never lost.

Benedick had volunteered a dimple in exchange for his two knights, a soft chuckle in exchange for three pawns and a pair of laughing eyes to make up for a series of inescapable checks. It was not kind; it was not gentlemanly! Why, the boy fought like a blackguard, like a very dog of war, his meek appearance belying a cold and menacing heart. Brandon began to curse the fact that he had caused the fencing to be cancelled. At that, surely, he would have won: he was physically stronger than this pune of a boy. A billion bats! If he didn't think of something quick, the vagabond would - my God he was already in the process of - it couldn't be true -

"Checkmate," said the rascal, grinning merrily as he sent Brandon's king to doom.

A Rose, conquered! He had a mind to demand satisfaction. But of course he was chary even of that; he did not want to risk even the slightest chance of a double defeat.

And now the fiend was offering a hand to be shaken. The impudence! But, wearily, he took it. It was smooth and small. He grimaced. A woman's fingers. But he denied the thought.

He had not just been clobbered by a girl.

* * *

Benedick, dressed in a white satin gown with elephantine shoulder puffs, sat under an elmwood tree in the west end of the Young Ladies' I.C. garden. Silent cries shook his body, which heaved convulsively like that of a dying animal. His wig had come partly undone, and several strands of silver hair over his face added to his dishevelled, incongruous appearance.

Presently a man of about forty entered on the scene. He was neither stout nor thin but had a pleasant, middling build and moderately broad shoulders; the set of his grey wig, and the manner of his clothes, suggested a doctor, or perhaps a solicitor. Benedick didn't see him.

The man gave a sort of throttled cough. And then, when the miserable young lady failed to respond, "Miss?"

Nothing.

"Your Highness?"

He had made his way through the shrubbery towards the young lady, who appeared most disconsolate indeed.

"Your Highness - Mademoiselle - er - awfully sorry to intrude... But you see my watch seems to have stopped. You don't happen to have the time?"

"I happen to have eternity! And now if you would kindly go away!"

But the man didn't go away. And suddenly someone was holding a tube up to Benedick's nose - and the next thing he knew he no longer felt sorrow, or anger, or indeed anything at all.

The last thing he was aware of was four bulging eyes staring down at him.


End file.
